CONCERNING THE TOWER OF FLIES, SAINT-POL, AND THE MARQUESS OF MONTFERRAT
In the church of Saint Lazarus of the Knights, on Lammas Day, the son of
Richard and Jehane was made a Christian by the Abbot of Poictiers.
Gossips were the Count of Champagne, the Earl of Leicester, and (by
proxy) the Queen-Mother. He was named Fulke.
At the moment of anointing the church-bell was rung; and at that moment
Gilles de Gurdun spat upon the pavement outside. Saint-Pol said to him,
'We must do better than that, Gilles.'
And Gilles, 'I pray God may spit him out.'
'Oh, He!' said Saint-Pol with a bitter laugh; 'He helps those who are
helpful of themselves.'
'I cannot help myself, Eustace,' said Gurdun. 'I have tried. I had him
unarmed before me at Messina, and he looked me down, and I could not do
it.'
'Have at his back, then.'
'I hope it may not come to that, said Gilles; 'and yet it may, if it
must.'
'Come with me to-night to the Tower of Flies,' said Saint-Pol. 'Here is
my shameful sister brought out of church. I cannot stay.'
'I stay,' said Gilles de Gurdun. King Richard came out of church, and
Jehane, and the child carried on a shield.
Jehane, who had much ado to walk without falling, saw not Gilles; but
Gilles saw her, and the red in his face took a tinge of black. While she
was before him he gaped at her, with a dry tongue clacking in his mouth,
consumed by a dreadful despair; but when she had passed by, swaying in
her weakness, barely able to hold up her lovely head, he lifted his face
to the white sky, and looked unwinking at the sun, wondering where else
an equal cruelty could abide. In this golden king, as cruel as the sun,
and as swift, and as splendid! Ah, dastard, dastard! At the minute
Gilles could have leapt at him and mauled the great shoulders with a
dog's weapons. There was no solace for him but to bite. So he dashed his
forearm into his face, and sluiced his teeth in that.
But King Richard of the high head mounted his horse in the churchyard,
and rode among the people before Jehane's bearers to the Street of the
Camel. Squires of his threw silver coins among the crowds who filled the
ways.
Within the house, he laid her on her bed, and held up the child before
her, high in the air. He was in that great mood where nothing could
resist him. She, faint and fragrant on the bed, so frail as to seem
transparent, a disembodied sprite, smiled because she felt at ease, as
the feeble do when they first lie down.
'Lo, Fulke of Anjou!' sang Richard--'Fulke, son of Richard, the son of
Henry, the son of Geoffrey, the son of Fulke! Fulke, my son Fulke, I
will make thee a knight even now!' He held the babe in one hand, with
the free hand drew his long sword. The flat blade touched the nodding
little head.
'Rise up, Sir Fulke of Anjou, true knight of thine house, Sieur de
Cuigny when I have thee home again. By the Face!' he cried shortly, as
if remembering something, 'we must get him the badge: a switch of wild
broom!'
'Dear lord, sweet lord,' murmured Jehane, faint in bed, nearly gone: but
he raved on.
'When I lay, even as thou, Fulke, naked by my mother, my father sent for
a branch of the broom, and stuck it in the pillow against I could carry
it. And shalt thou go without it, boy? Art not thou of the
broom-bearers?' He put the child into the nurse's arm and went to the
door. He called for Gaston of Béarn, for the Dauphin of Auvergne, for
Mercadet, for the devil. The Bishop of Salisbury came running in.
'Bishop,' said King Richard, 'you must serve me to-day. You must take
ship, my friend, with speed; you must go to Bordeaux, thence a-horseback
to the moor above Angers. Pluck me a branch of the wild broom and
return. I must have it, I tell you; so go. Haste, Bishop. God be with
you.'
The Bishop began to splutter. 'Hey, sire--!'
'Never call me that again, Bishop, if your ship is within sight by
sunset,' he said. 'Call me rather the Prince of the Devils. See my
chancellor, take my ring to him, omit nothing. Off with you, and back
with all speed.'
'Ha, sire, look you now,' cried the desperate bishop, 'there will be no
broom before next Easter. Here we are at Lammas.'
'There will be a miracle,' said Richard; 'I am sure of it. Go.' Fairly
pushing him from the door, he returned to find Jehane in a dead faint.
This set him raving a new tune. He fell upon his knees incontinent,
raised her in his arms, carried her about, kissed her all over, cried
upon the saints and God, did every extravagance under the sun, omitted
the one wise thing of letting in the physicians. Abbot Milo at last,
coming in, saved Jehane from him for the deeper purposes of God.
The Count of Saint-Pol, going to the Castle, to the Queen's side, found
the Marquess with her. She also lay white and twisting on a couch,
crisping and uncrisping her little hands. Montferrat stood at her head;
three of her ladies knelt about her, whispering in her own tongue,
proffering orange water, sweetmeats, a feather whisk. Saint-Pol knelt in
her view.
'Madame, how is it with your Grace?' he said. The little lady quivered,
but took no notice.
'Madame,' said Saint-Pol again, 'I am a peer of France, but a knight
before all. I am come to serve your Grace with my manhood. I pray you
speak to me.' The Marquess folded his arms; his large white face was a
sight to see.
Queen Berengère's palms were bleeding a little where her nails had
broken the skin. She was quite white; but her eyes, burning black, had
no pupils. When Saint-Pol spoke for the second time she shook beyond all
control and threw her head about. Also she spoke.
'I suffer, I suffer horribly. It is cruel beyond understanding or
knowledge that a girl should suffer as I suffer. Where is God? Where is
Mary? Where are the angels?'
'Dearest Madame, dearest Madame,' said the cooing women, and one stroked
her face. But the Queen shook the hand off, and went wailing on, saying
more than she could have meant.
'Is it good usage of the daughter of a king, Lord Jesus? Is this the way
of marriage, that the bride be left on her wedding day?' She jumped up
on her couch and took hold of her bosom in the sight of men. 'She hath
given him a child! He is with her now. Am I not fit for children? Shall
there never be milk? Oh, oh, here is more shame than I can bear!' She
hid her face in her hands, and rocked herself about.
Montferrat (really moved) said low to Saint-Pol: 'Are we knights to
suffer these wrongs to be?' Said Saint-Pol with a sob in his voice, 'Ah,
God, mend it!'
'He will,' said Montferrat, 'if we help to mend.'
This reminded Saint-Pol of his own words to De Gurdun; so he made haste
to throw himself before the Queen, that he might still be pure in his
devotion. 'My lady Berengère,' he said ardently, 'take me for your
soldier. I am a bad man, but surely not so bad as this. Let me fight him
for you.'
The Queen shook her head, impatient. 'Hey! What can you do against so
glorious a man? He is the greatest in the world.'
'Ha, domeneddio!' said the Marquess with a snort. 'I have that which
will abate such glory. Dearest Madame, we go to pray for your health.'
He kissed her hand, and drew away with him Saint-Pol, who was trembling
under the thoughts that fired him.
'Oh, my soul, Marquess!' said the youth, when they were in the glare of
day again. 'What shall we do to mend this wretchedness?' The Marquess
looked shrewdly.
'End the wretch who wrought it.'
'Do we go clean to that, Marquess? Have we no back-thoughts of our own?'
'The work is clean enough. You come to-night to the Tower of Flies?'
'Yes, yes, I will come,' said Saint-Pol.
'I shall have one with me,' the Marquess went on, 'who will be of
service, mind you.'
'Ah,' said Saint-Pol, 'and so shall I.'
The Marquess stroked his nose. 'Hum,' he said, advising, 'who might your
man be, Saint-Pol?'
'One,' said Eustace, 'who has reason to hate Richard as much as that
poor lady in there.'
'Who is that?'
'My sister Jehane's lover.'
'By the visible Host,' said Montferrat,' we shall be a loving company,
all told.' So they parted for the time.
The Tower of Flies stands apart from the city on a spit of sand which
splays out into two flanges, and so embraces in two hooks a lagoon of
scummy ooze, of weeds and garbage, of all the waste and silt of a slack
water. In front of it only is the tidal sea, which there flows languidly
with a half-foot rise; on the other is the causeway running up to the
city wall. Above and all about this dead marsh you hear day and night
the buzzing of innumerable great flies, and in the daytime see them
hanging like gauze in the thick air. They say the reason is that
anciently the pagans sacrificed hecatombs hereabout to the idols they
worshipped; but another (more likely) is that the lagoon is a dead
slack, and stinks abominably. All dead things thrown from the city walls
come floating thither, and there stay rotting. The flies get what they
can, sharing with the creatures of land and sea; for great fish feed
there; and at night the jackals and hyænas come down, and bicker over
what they can drag out. But more than once or twice the sharks drag them
in, and have fresh meat, if their brother sharks allow it. However all
this may be, the place has a dreadful name, a dreadful smell, and a
dreadful sound, what with the humming of flies and dull rippling of the
sharks. These can seldom be seen, since the water is too thick; but you
can tell their movements by the long oily waves (like the heads of large
arrows) which their fins throw behind them as they quest from carcase to
carcase down there in the ooze.
Thither in the murk of night came Montferrat in a black cloak, holding
his nose, but made feverish through his ears by the veiled chorus of the
flies. By the starshine and glow of the putrid water he saw a tall man
in a white robe, who stood at the extreme edge of the spit and looked at
the sharks. Montferrat hid his guards behind the Tower, crossed himself,
drew his sword to hack a way through the monstrous flies, and so came
swishing forward, like a man who mows a swathe.
The tall man saw him, but did not move. The Marquess came quite close.
'What are you looking at, my friend?' he asked, in the Arabian tongue.
'I am looking at the sharks, which have a new corpse in there,' said the
man. 'See what a turmoil there is in the water. There must be six
monsters together in that swirl. See, see, there speeds another!'
The Marquess turned sick. 'God help, I cannot look,' he said.
'Why,' said the Arabian, 'It is a dead man they fight over.'
'May be, may be,' said the Marquess. 'You, my friend, are very familiar
with death. So am I; nor do I fear living man. But these great fish
terrify me.'
'You are a fool,' returned the other. 'They seek only their meat. But
you and I, and our like, seek nicer things than that. We have our souls
to feed; and the soul of a man is a free eater, of stranger appetite
than a shark.'
The Marquess looked at the flies. 'O God, Arabian, let us go away from
this place! Is there no rest from the flies?
'None at all,' said the Arabian; 'for thousands have been slain here;
and the flies also must be fed.'
'Pah, horrible!' said the Marquess, all in a sweat. The Arabian turned;
but his face was hidden, with a horrible appearance, as if a hooded
cloak stood up by itself and a voice proceeded from a fleshless garb.
'You, Marquess of Montferrat,' it said, 'what do you want with me by the
Tower of Flies?'
The Marquess remembered his needs. 'I want the death of a man,' he said;
'but not here, O Christ.'
'Who sent you?' asked the Arabian.
'The Sheik Moffadin, a captive, in the name of Ali, and of Abdallah,
servant of Ali.' So the Marquess, and would have kissed the man, but
that he saw no face under the hood, and dared not kiss emptiness.
'Come with me,' said the Arabian.
* * * * *
An hour later the Marquess came into the Tower of Flies, shaking. He
found Saint-Pol there, the Archduke of Austria, and Gilles de Gurdun.
There were no greetings.
'Where is your man, Marquess?' asked Saint-Pol of the pale Italian.
'He is out yonder looking at the sharks,' said the Marquess, in a
whisper; 'but he will serve us if we dare use him.' He struck at the
flies weaving about his head. 'This is a horrible place, Saint-Pol,' he
said, staring. Saint-Pol shrugged.
'The deed we compass, dear Marquess, is none of the choicest, remember,'
said he. The Marquess then saw that Austria's broad leather back was
covered with flies. This quickened his loathing.
'By our Saviour,' he said, 'one must hate a man very much to talk
against him here.'
'Do you hate enough?' asked Saint-Pol.
The Marquess stared about him. He saw the Archduke peacefully twiddle
his thumbs. He saw De Gurdun, who stood moodily, looking at the floor.
'Oh, content you,' Saint-Pol answered him. 'That man hates more than you
or I. And with more reason.'
'What are your reasons, Eustace?' asked Montferrat, still in a whisper.
'I hate him,' said Saint-Pol, 'for my brother's sake, whose back he
broke; for my sister's sake, whose heart he must break before he has
done with her; for my house's sake, to which (in Eudo's person) he gave
the lie; because he is of Anjou, cruel as a cat and savage as a dog;
because he is a ruthless, swift, treacherous, secret, unconscionable
beast. Are these enough reasons for you?'
'By God, Eustace,' said the breathless Montferrat, 'I cannot think it.
Not here!'
'Then,' said Saint-Pol, 'I hate him for Berengère's sweet sake. That is
a good and clean hatred, I believe. That wasted lady, writhing white on
a bed, moved me to pure pity. If I loved her before I will love her now
with whole service, not daring belie my knighthood. I love that queen
and intend to serve her. I have never seen such pitiful beauty before.
What! Is the man insatiate? Shall he have everything? He shall have
nothing. That will serve for me, I hope. Now, Marquess, it is your
turn.'
The Marquess struck out at the flies. 'I hate him,' he said, 'because,
before the King of France, he called me a liar and threatened me with
ignominious death.' He gasped here, and looked round him to see what
effect he had made. Saint-Pol's eyes (green-grey like his sister's) were
upon him, rather coldly; Gurdun's on the floor still. The Archduke was
scratching in his beard; and the chorus of flies swelled and shrilled.
The Marquess needed alliances.
'Eh, my friends,' he said, almost praying, 'will this not serve me?'
Said Saint-Pol, 'Marquess, listen to this man. Speak, Gilles.'
Gilles looked up. 'I have tried to kill him. I had my chance fair. I
could not do it. I shall try again, for the law is on my side. To you,
lords, I shall say nothing, for I am a man ashamed to speak of what I
desire to do, not yet certain whether I can accomplish it. This I say,
the man is my liege lord, but a thief for all that. I loved my Lady
Jehane when she was twelve years old and I a page in her father's house.
I have never loved any other woman, and never shall. There are no other
women. She gave herself to me for good reason, and he himself gave her
into my hand for good reason. And then he robbed me of her on my wedding
day, and has slain my father and young brother to keep her. He has given
her a child: enough of this. Dastard! I will follow and follow until I
dare to strike. Then I will kill him. Let me alone.' Gilles, red and
gloomy, had to jerk the words out: he was no speaker. The Marquess had a
fierce eye.
'Ha, De Gurdun,' he said, 'we need thee, good knight. But come out of
this accursed fly-roost, and we shall show thee a better way than thine.
It is the flies that make thee afraid.'
'Eh, damn the flies,' said Gilles. 'They will never disturb me. They do
but seek their meat.'
'They disturb me horribly,' said the Marquess, with Italian candour.
Saint-Pol laughed. 'I told you that I could bring you in a man,' he
said. 'Now, Marquess, you have our two clean reasons. What is yours?'
'I have given you mine,' said Montferrat, shifting his feet. 'He called
me a liar.'
'It lacks cogency,' said Saint-Pol. 'One must have clean reasons in an
unclean place.' The Marquess broke out into blasphemy.
'May hell scorch us all if I have no reasons! What! Has he not kept me
from my kingdom? Guy of Lusignan will be king by his means. What is
Philip against Richard? What am I? What is the Archduke?' He had
forgotten that the Archduke was there.
'By Beelzebub, the god of this place,' said that deep-voiced hairy man,
'you shall see what the Archduke is when you want him. But I am no
murderer. I am going home. I know what is due to a prince, and from a
prince.'
'Do as you please, my lord,' said Saint-Pol; 'but our schemes are like
to be endangered by such goings.'
'I have so little liking for your schemes, to be plain with you,'
replied the Archduke, 'that they may fail and fail again for me. How I
deal with the King of England, who has insulted me beyond hope, is a
matter for him and me to determine.'
'Cousin,' said Montferrat, 'you desert me.'
'Cousin again,' said the Archduke, 'do you wonder?' And so he walked
out.
'Punctilious boar!' cried Saint-Pol in a fume, 'who can only get his
tushes in one way! Now, Marquess, what are we to do?'
The Marquess smiled darkly, and tapped his nose. 'I have my business in
good train. I have an ancient friend on Lebanon. Stand in with me, the
pair of you, and I have all done smoothly.'
'You hire?' asked Saint-Pol, drily. Then he shrugged--'Oh, but we may
trust you!'
'Per la Madonna!' said the Marquess.
'What will you do, Gilles?' Saint-Pol asked the Norman. 'Will you leave
it to the Marquess of Montferrat?'
'I will not,' said Gilles. 'I follow King Richard from point to point. I
hire nobody.'
The Marquess's hands went up, desperate of such folly. 'You only with
me, my Eustace!' he said.
Saint-Pol looked up. 'I differ from either. I have a finer plan than
either. You are satisfied with a sword-stroke in the back--'
'By my soul, it shall not be in the back!' cried De Gurdun. Saint-Pol
shrugged again.
'That is the Marquess's way. But what matter? You want to see him down.
So do I, by heaven, but in hell, not on the earth. I will see him
tormented. I will see him ashamed. I will wreck his hopes. I will make
him a mockery of all kings, drag his high spirit through the mud of
disastrousness. Pouf! Do you think him all flesh? He is finer stuff than
that. What he makes others I seek to make him-soiled, defiled, a blown
rag. There is work to be done in that kind here and at home. King Philip
will see to one; I stay with the host.'
'It is a good plan,' said the Marquess; 'I admire it exceedingly. But
steel is safer for a common man. I go to Lebanon, for my part, to my
friends there. But I think we are in agreement.'
Before they went away, they cut their arms with a dagger, and mingled
their blood. The Marquess wrapped his wound deep in his cloak to keep
the flies from it. Across the silence of the night, as they made their
way into the city, came the cry of the watchman from a belfry: 'Save us,
Holy Sepulchre!' It floated from tower to tower, from land far out to
sea. Jehane, dry in her hot bed, heard it; Richard, on his knees in an
oratory, heard it, crossed himself, and repeated the words. Queen
Berengère moaned in her sleep; the Duke of Burgundy snored; and the
Arabian spat into the lagoon.