The Duchess Lilias, white sinner that she was, had fled from Agravale
and taken horse for the East Lands with all her men. Great fear had
seized upon those in the city when the northern sky had gleamed with the
fringes of the fire. Under cover of night they had fled in a panic out
of Agravale, men, women, and children, the monk and the merchant, the
great lady and the hag. Unreasoning fear had seized on every heart, for
they remembered the sacking of Ronan’s town, and the foul deeds done by
their soldiery in the province of the Seven Streams. Rumour had mouthed
the report in Agravale that the heretics and the men of the north would
sack the city in revenge for the harrying of the Seven Streams. When
news was brought of Benedict’s overthrow, there was much wailing through
all the city. In their panic the whole population fled out of Agravale,
after gathering such valuables as they could carry—gold cups, precious
stones, money bags, bales of silk. Many of the aged and the sick were
left within the walls, abandoned in the fierce terror of the moment. As
for the priests, they were the first to be gone, having a jealous
reverence for the ecclesiastical sanctity.
Thus when Blanche’s trumpets rang out before the walls there came no
shrill counterblast, no bristling up of spears. They seemed to challenge
a city of the dead, white and voiceless, sunk in the mystery of the
solemn woods. The gates were open, the streets silent, the towers and
battlements devoid of life. There was no brave clamour to tell of
courage, no clangour of bells, no blowing of trumpets.
Lothaire and his captains had suspected treachery at first, some subtle
trap or priestly ambush.
“Tread warily, madame,” he said to his lady. “Who knows what devilry
lurks in such silence?”
Cautious even in victory, they sent advance guards into the city, not
only to hold the gates, but to search places, churches and abbeys, where
armed men might lie in hiding. Company after company had clattered in,
with no sound to greet them save the clangour of their horses’ hoofs.
The streets were silent, the houses empty, the church gates open, the
gardens deserted. In St. Pelinore’s they had found a few infirm folk who
had taken sanctuary before the altar, while the very dogs seemed to have
fled the city.
Thus when Tristan and Rosamunde came from the Mad Mere with their
hundred men, Agravale of the south was in Blanche’s hands. She had
quartered her men within the walls, but had made no state entry into the
city. Nor had she suffered Columbe’s coffin to be taken in, remembering
her promise to Tristan in this matter.
On the morrow after Tristan’s joining the Duchess, they marched into
Agravale with banners flying, trumpets pealing through the empty
streets. Eight men of Samson’s company carried Columbe’s coffin upon
their shoulders, Tristan walking bareheaded behind the body, with
Blanche and Rosamunde following at his heels. After them came the
Duchess’s knights, their shields covered, their swords reversed. Yet
Tristan had ordered the bells to be rung, the trumpets to be blown as
though for a victory. Had he not taken Columbe from her grave of shame
to tomb her royally within the walls of Agravale?
Thus with bell a-swing, arms clanging, trumpets screaming, they came
through the wide and splendid streets to the great church of St.
Pelinore. On either hand rose the rich houses of white stone, and the
broad gardens brimming with early flowers. At the gate of the church
Tristan stood aside with drawn sword, suffered Blanche and Rosamunde to
pass in before him. Above shone the painted roof, on either side the
tall bejewelled windows, panels of colour let into the grey wall.
Columbe’s coffin was carried up the aisle, into the choir, past the
carved stalls to where the high altar shone with alabaster and gold.
Tristan mounted the seven steps, turned and faced the knights and the
rough soldiery.
“Sirs,” he said, bending his head towards the Duchess, “by God’s grace,
and this good lady’s nobleness, we are masters of Agravale and of the
Southern Marches. Yonder lies Columbe of Purple Isle, even my sister,
whom Jocelyn slew by Ogier’s sword. By your good grace I will bury her
here, even under the high altar of the southern saint, Pelinore.”
The whole church cheered him, smote their shields, the thunder of the
voices beating upon the roof. Many of the men who had followed Tristan
and Samson ran to the outbuildings where tools were stored, came back
bearing picks and bars of iron. Tristan pointed them to the altar.
“Break down this table for me,” he cried, with upraised sword. “Carve me
a grave that will hold my sister.”
Silence fell upon the mass of steel-capped heads that filled the church
from wall to wall. Desecration—but what of that? Was a broken grave
worse than an outraged hearth, than homeless women or murdered men? Soon
came the sharp clangour of pick and bar as Tristan’s soldiers broke the
altar. Alabaster and marble, gold work and precious stones came
crumbling down the whitened steps, till the altar became a ruinous heap,
its pomp a pile of dust and rubble, glistening with gold work and
gleaming gems. Beneath four great flagstones that the men had laid bare
was tombed the body of St. Pelinore.
Under these stones they came upon a leaden coffin, with a cross of
tarnished gold riveted thereon. In the grave were a staff, a pair of
sandals, and a faded robe. For the moment the men recoiled from the
coffin and the relics of a saint. Tristan, seeing their moral quandary,
sprang over the pile of rubbish into the grave and touched the leaden
coffin with his sword.
“What of Holy Guard, Sir Saint?” he said. “Thou who persecutest in
visions, rise up and prove thy power.”
No sound came from the silence save the heavy breathing of the men who
had broken down the altar. Tristan stood back from the grave, smiled at
the mute faces of his men, pointed them to the coffin with his sword.
“I have broken the spell, sirs,” he said. “This good saint will not save
his church.”
They took heart and obeyed him, lifted the coffin out, laid it in the
choir betwixt the stalls where Samson’s heretics were gathered. Into the
grave they lowered Columbe’s body, replaced the stones, piled back at
Tristan’s bidding the broken fragments of the altar. Only Blanche and
Rosamunde remained while Tristan knelt there awhile and prayed.
When he arose they both came to him, like Hope and Charity who had
attended at the burial of Faith.
“God give you joy, Tristan,” said the Duchess. “Columbe is avenged. Turn
now, let all dark thoughts elapse.”
He looked at them both and smiled.
“The night is past,” he said.
Blanche had taken Rosamunde by the hand.
“And here, oh my brother, is your dawn.”
They went out into the sunny forecourt where the men were burying the
coffin of St. Pelinore under an orange tree. Once more the great church
was steeped in solitude, the sunlight plashing through the coloured
glass, the arches wreathed with shadowy gloom. Yet the rosary with its
stones of white and green would be trodden no more by the penitents of
Agravale. An Isaurian spirit had inspired Tristan towards the church,
yet he was no mere image-breaker in his victory. The great church of St.
Pelinore should cover with its ruins the grave of Columbe, his dead
sister.
Thus the great work began. Knight and soldier seized an axe and pick,
broke down the altars and images and the rich frescoes. They threw down
the buttresses, sapped the piers and pillars at their foundations,
breached the walls and mined them in many places. By sunset the whole
church tottered, the great tower trembled, the pillars fell. It was then
that they fastened twenty stout ropes about the knees of the great
central piers. Every man quitted the doomed church and ran out to watch
its final overthrow.
At the flash of Tristan’s sword the men in the square set their hands to
the ropes and drew together with a loud shout. The two southern piers,
sapped at their foundations, tottered, broke, and came down like
thunder. For a moment the tall tower quivered and stood. Then came the
rending of the walls, the heavy downrush of the roof. Pillars crashed
down like smitten Titans; a cloud of dust rushed to the heavens. Even as
the temple of the Philistines fell beneath Samson’s strength, so the
church of St. Pelinore sank in ruins over Columbe’s grave.