Like a proud star, Rosamunde of Joyous Vale had set in the far west,
over the wilds and the deep woods that stretched towards the sea.
Lilias’s forsaken barge had borne her away down the silver curves of the
mighty Gloire, with Telamon at the helm and ten men toiling at the oars.
From a tower on the walls of Agravale Tristan had watched the gilded
poop disappear into the gloom of the woods. In anger Rosamunde had
parted from him, because he had set his duty before her love and had
dared to deny her the tyranny of tears. Tristan wondered, as he watched
from the tower, whether he would behold her face again.
“To horse, to horse!”
Such was the trumpet’s cry that noon. Tristan and his men tightened up
the girths, rode out from Agravale under the sun at its zenith, wound
down the steep road towards the river, crossed the stone bridge, and
held for the south. Their horses’ hoofs rang on the old Roman road that
stretched over the meadows like a great beam. They had taken certain of
the peasant folk with them as guides, men who knew all the mountain
passes and the narrow defiles of St. Isidore’s Gate.
So the sun climbed, descended, and set in the west, beating on the
distant peaks with vapours of crimson and gold. Knight Tristan rode at
the head of his men, his eyes fixed on the far mountains, the purple
slopes that rose from the plain, the icy glimmer of the snow-white
heights. He rode as a man who considered death, to whom the unknown
stretched out like an unsailed sea. There was great loneliness upon
Tristan’s soul that evening, for all the love seemed to have left his
life, and all his battlings to have ended in bitterness. In the hour of
trial Rosamunde had failed him, had hid her face from him behind the
mask of pride. Nor cared he greatly what might befall from that hour,
since death would honour him when hope stood apart.
Night came with a round moon swimming in a sky of dusky azure studded
with the faces of many stars. Tristan halted his men to rest them and
their horses on the march, for though the hours were precious, he would
not deny them the sleep that they needed. They off-saddled at a little
shrine by the roadside, a shrine dedicated to St. Geneviève by some good
matron dead and gone. Roses clambered about the walls and slim cypresses
streaked the misty grass where a little pool caught the light of the
moon. A grove of poplars stood near in a broad meadow, the night breeze
playing in their mighty tops.
As for Tristan, he had no hope of sleep, for there were thoughts moving
in his brain, tramping like restless sentinels to and fro. The night
seemed full of ghostly voices, crying to him out of the dark. He heard
his mother’s voice, even as he had heard it as a little child when his
hands clung to the folds of her gown. Also he listened to Columbe
weeping, as she had wept once in Purple Isle long ago. Yet Rosamunde’s
clear tones topped them all. He remembered the songs he had heard her
sing in distant Joyous Vale to the women and children of Ronan’s town.
For him, perhaps, she would sing no more. Tristan found himself
wondering in his heart whether she would weep if he died in the
mountains. Perhaps her anger would melt away when she learnt that she
had lost his love for ever.
Tristan passed the night alone under the stars, pacing to and fro on the
white road, with the wind playing in the poplar tops. Often he stood
leaning upon his spear, gazing towards the mountains whose snowy peaks
gleamed like white marble in the distant south. Yonder in the yawning
passes and under the huge and savage crags he would meet Serjabil and
his men, rear up his shield against their lances. There was much of the
soldier’s joy in the thought that his sword would be measured against
the scimitar.
Soon the dawn came, a golden haze rising in the east. The poplars caught
the streaming light; in the meadows silvery mists smoked up; the far
woods glistened, seemed to tongue forth flame.
From the gloom of the north a faint sound shivered on the wind. Tristan
heard it and stood erect, peering along the empty road that ran so
straight under the tall trees. The sound seemed to grow with the rising
dawn, to swell into the thunder of many hoofs, the clash and clangour of
hurrying steel. Vague lightnings came flashing from the gloom, shield
and helmet mimicking the east. Huge mist-wrapped figures loomed out of
the north, mailed phantoms pressing through the vapoury dawn along the
white road betwixt the trees. A trumpet sounded beside the shrine.
Tristan’s men came crowding up through the long grass amid the burning
cypresses.
A trumpet’s scream answered Tristan’s challenge. Along the road rolled a
hundred spears behind Blanche the Duchess on her great white horse, the
Banner of the Bleeding Heart blowing above. They came to a halt before
the shrine amid an eddying cloud of dust. Tristan and his men ran to
meet the Duchess, cheering her mightily with great good will.
Blanche, big-hearted woman that she was, had straightway turned when
Percival had ridden in with Tristan’s message concerning the Saracens.
She had sent a rider to overtake Lothaire, bidding him march south again
with all his men. Not waiting for him to join her, she had used whip and
spur in her gallant haste to bring Tristan succour. Only her bodyguard,
some hundred spears, had followed her past Agravale towards the
mountains.
Blanche climbed down from her jaded horse and met Tristan face to face
on the dusty road. The soldiers on either side stood back out of rough
respect to these two great ones whose hands were clasped in the cause of
the Cross. Though Blanche was weary with hard riding, her splendid
spirit seemed unquenched, her courage fresh as the broadening dawn. Her
eyes were very bright as they gazed on Tristan’s: she smiled at him
dearly, held out her hands.
“Old friend,” she said, “we meet again.”
Tristan went down on one knee in the road and kissed the hands that were
stretched towards him. Was she not a woman to serve and honour, a woman
who could strengthen a soldier’s heart and give him help in the hour of
need? She had seen no madness in this ride of his, but rather the desire
of an heroic heart to bear the brunt against heavy odds.
“Madame,” he said to her, still kneeling in the dust, “Heaven wills it,
it seems, that Tristan le Sauvage should be your debtor.”
She drew her hands away from his, as though half unwilling to see him
kneel to her.
“Rise up, Tristan,” she said; “it is my good fortune that gives me the
privilege. Where is Rosamunde? Will you not lead me to her?”
As for Tristan, when he heard her speak Rosamunde’s name he went both
red and white under his tanned skin. He was jealous for Rosamunde, yet
half ashamed at having to justify her before the Duchess. He would not
have confessed, even under torture, that Rosamunde had failed him in her
love.
“Madame,” he said, rising up from his knees and squaring his great
shoulders against the truth, “Rosamunde have I sent to Holy Guard, that
she might be safe there against all mischance.”
Blanche had been watching Tristan’s face, the shifting thought clouds
that played over his eyes, nor had his answer wholly deceived her.
“How?” she said. “Rosamunde at Holy Guard? Was it her will that you
should go alone to this great venture, whence none may return?”
Tristan was silent for one brief moment. Yet Blanche had discovered much
of the truth in that short silence that held him mute.
“I planned for the best,” he made haste to answer her. “Who knows what
may happen to us in the mountains? Should I drag love into the van of
battle, and cast such a pearl into Serjabil’s treasury? Nay, Madame
Blanche, give me but fifty of your men, and I will hold the passes till
Lothaire comes south.”
On Blanche’s face there was a mysterious light, as though she rejoiced
over some heaven-sent boon. Her dark eyes shone under her silvery hair;
her voice rang deep as she gave Tristan her answer.
“Not fifty, but a hundred shall you have,” she said, “and I, Blanche,
will stand at your side.”
Tristan’s eyes met hers in one long look.
“Nay,” he said, “you are too noble a soul to be risked against
Serjabil’s sword.”
“I am a woman,” she answered him very simply, “a woman who loves to
stand by those who do not flinch when the wind blows keen. Am I better
than my men, who give their blood for Christ and the Cross? No, I trow
not. Who fears death when those most dear are on the brink of the
grave?”
Tristan answered her not a word, for he was glad at heart of her great
courage. He could have blessed God for such a woman. Did not a deep
voice cry within him, “If only Rosamunde had spoken thus!”