While Rosamunde was held a prisoner in the madhouse in the mere, Tristan
and the Duchess had turned back from the west and marched again on
Marvail and the fords of the Lorient. Having dealt with Jocelyn and
dispersed his people, they were ready to revenge them for Samson’s
death, and for the ruin wrought in the Seven Streams. They had sworn
together, they and their nobles, to humble Agravale and to end the
crusades that the priests had preached in that same city.
At Marvail Tristan had set craftsmen at work upon two coffins of
seasoned wood. The larger was framed for Jocelyn the Bishop; Tristan had
him laid alive therein, and the lid fastened over him with thongs of
leather. Two holes were left in the lid over Jocelyn’s face, so that he
might breathe and take his food. Imprisoned thus, he was carried on a
litter pole on the march, while beside him was borne the empty coffin
covered with the Sacred Banner blessed by the Pope.
Late that winter Tristan and the Duchess crossed the Lorient and
encamped near to Samson’s grave. They set their men to raise a great
mound over the place, and having cut down the tree on which Samson had
been crucified, they fashioned from it a great cross. This they set on
the summit of the mound as a trophy to him who had conquered in death.
Between the fords of the Lorient and the city of Agravale lay some
twenty leagues of forest land, more dark and rugged than the province of
the Seven Streams. Here and there were villages hid in the deep gloom of
the woods. A few abbeys and religious houses slept grey and solemn in
the wilderness, their fish ponds glimmering amid the green. Many strange
beasts lurked within its shadows and many barbarous folk but half
claimed by the Church. From the fords of the Lorient even to the cliffs
of Agravale a squirrel might have journeyed from tree to tree.
Into this wild region Benedict of the Mountains had plunged with the few
hundred men who had escaped from the slaughter in the west. Hither also
had gathered the remnant of those who had fled from Marvail after Count
Reynaud’s death. They had gathered their scattered companies on the way
to Agravale, and were arming the rude peasantry to march once more on
the Seven Streams.
By Samson’s grave Tristan and the Duchess took counsel together with all
the nobles of the north. Samson’s mantle had descended on Tristan, and
though he had not the Heretic’s tongue, he had sufficient ardour to
serve the cause. Even the older men suffered his youth, for he had given
proof of his great strength, and was honest enough to be advised when in
need.
“To Agravale,” he said, “that, sirs, I take it, is our common cry. Since
we have Jocelyn in our hands, we cannot leave our work half done.”
“Destroy the lair,” quoth Lothaire of the Isles, “and the bear will rear
no more cubs within. We men of the north are ready to follow.”
So said they all about the board, for the Duchess had given Tristan her
signet ring as a token that he had her will in the war. Some spoke of
marching straight for the south, braving the forest and all its perils.
Others were for bearing towards the sea, where they might reach Agravale
by the banks of the Gloire. But Tristan had nurtured more in his heart
than a mere march through the forest with skirmishes by the way if
Benedict of the Mountains stood to oppose them. Rosamunde, he knew, was
in the madhouse in the mere, and therefore safe for him, moated from the
woods. The winter had been dry, with but little rain, and for days a
strong wind had blown from the north-west, and the dead wood and leaves
were brittle as tinder. It was Tristan’s plan to fire the forest with a
line of beacons carried south.
The nobles of the north were well content with some such strategy as
this. They parted their host into three great companies, Lothaire taking
one, Sir Didcart of the Hills another, Tristan and the Duchess keeping
the third. After swearing troth over Samson’s grave, they marched south
from the fords of the Lorient, prepared to follow Tristan’s plan.
As though to humour them, the wind freshened still further, and veered
towards the north. Grey clouds raced in the sky overhead, and the tall
trees moaned and swayed on the hills. Tristan saw that the hour had
come. All day his men had laboured on the rim of the forest, hewing down
trees, gathering brushwood and dead branches. They had built twelve
great pyres each more than two furlongs apart, where the flames could
strike at once into the forest. Lothaire and Sir Didcart were marching
south, stacking up beacons as they went, ready for the signal from the
north.
On the third night after the taking of the oath over Samson’s grave
Tristan gave the word for the firing of the forest. He was posted with
Blanche on the crest of a hill where they could watch the lighting of
the beacons. The wind moaned over the trees, and a myriad black spires
waved in the wind like sharp billows on a heavy sea. Clouds were
scudding fast in the heavens, with a new moon peeping through and
through.
Red streaks played about the outermost thickets where men with torches
ran to and fro. Soon the red streaks lengthened into yellow spears while
smoke billowed southwards with the wind. The flames smote upwards and
licked at the trees, curling round trunk and waving top, spreading fans
of flame from a thousand boughs. The pyres grew into pyramids of fire,
great golden obelisks blazing to the sky. From the fords of the Lorient
the message sped, leaping leagues into the night. Lothaire’s men saw the
beacons gleam, and kindling their torches, linked the chain up.
Tristan and Blanche kept watch upon the hill, their knights round them
in silent awe. The tall trees were wrapped in shrouds of flame, and the
smoke of their burning hung like a thunder-cloud overhead. Onwards with
the wind the fire rolled, bringing the giants of the forest to earth,
till glowing rivers streamed towards the south to meet and merge into a
sea of fire. It was as some vast second chaos devouring the world, a
burning judgment hurled down from heaven.
Tristan stood leaning on his sword with the joy of a fanatic on his
face.
“See how the south burns!” he cried, stretching out his hand. “Martyrs
and innocents, behold your vengeance!”
A sudden thought seized him as he watched the spreading fire. Calling to
the men who were gathered round him, he pealed his deep voice into their
ears, for the cry of the forest was as the roar of the sea. Figures
struggled forward out of the gloom, bearing the coffin that held Jocelyn
of Agravale. The bands were unfastened and the priest lifted out, for he
could scarcely use his cramped limbs. Cowering before Tristan, he
blinked at the scene as though called from the grave to face his doom.
The forest lay a great sea of fire, and southwards the flames ravaged
the night, till the distant hills awoke and grew grey.
Tristan stood beside the priest and pointed to the forest with his
sword.
“Behold your bishopric,” he said. “Here we may show ye the likeness of
hell.”