The Fortunes of Garin by Mary Johnston (romantic novels in english .txt) 📖

OUR LADY IN EGYPT

The air quivered above all surfaces; light and heat spoke with intensity. But those who had been long years in Syria were used to a greater intensity. They travelled now, not minding heat and glare. They rode through a little village that Garin remembered, and at the farther end passed a house with mulberry trees. Children played in their shade. “Ha!” said Garin of the Golden Island. “Time’s wheel goes round, and the fountain casts new spray!”

Rainier the squire knew this country-side. A certain castle was placed conveniently for dinner-time, and to this they drew from the high road. Where you did not war, there obtained, in the world of chivalry, a boundless hospitality. The lord who held this castle made all welcome. A great bell rang; here was dinner in the hall.

From the castle tower one saw afar, beyond the boundaries of Toulouse. The baron could give information. Duke Richard had spared Jaufre de Montmaure two thousand spears and ten thousand men-at-arms, archers, and crossbowmen. Montmaure, himself, had a great force. Roche-de-Frêne fought strongly, but the land suffered. Stories were[190] told of the ways of Montmaure. Garin made enquiry as to the Abbey of Saint Pamphilius, not far to the northward. “Saint Pamphilius? Safe as though it held by God the Father’s beard! Years ago it chose Montmaure for advocate. Aye! Abbot Arnaut lives.” But the lord of the castle could not tell of Raimbaut the Six-fingered, if he held with Montmaure, or, passing him, clave to Roche-de-Frêne.

The castle would have had them bide the night, and the Crusader discourse of the Holy Land. But Garin must on. His imagination was seized; what lay before him drew him imperiously, like a loadstone. He bade the lord and lady of the castle farewell, mounted his horse, Noureddin, and with his men behind him took the road. The earth lay drowned in light, the air seemed hardly a strip of gauze between it and the sun. They must ride somewhat slowly through the afternoon. At last the heat and dazzle of the day declined. Straight before them lay the Abbey of Saint Pamphilius, and that were good harbourage for the night, but not for any who meant to enter battle upon the side of Roche-de-Frêne! The night would be dry, warm and bright. The men had food with them, in leathern pouches. Forest lay to the right of the road.

Garin spoke to his squires: “It is to my fancy to sleep in this wood to-night. Once I did sleep here, but without esquires and men-at-arms and war-horse.”

[191]

It chanced that the moon was almost full. Garin watched it mount between the branches of the trees, and the past rose with it to suffuse the present. He could recall the moods of that night, but they seemed to him now frail and boyish.... Dawn broke; his men rose from where they lay like brown acorns. Nearby, the stream that ran through the wood widened into a pool. Knight, squires, and men-at-arms laid aside clothing, plunged into the cool element, had joy of it. Afterwards, they breakfasted sparely. When the sun lighted the hill-tops they were again upon the road.

The road now trended eastward. They came to a chapel that was a ruin. Beside it, scooped from the hillside and shaded by an oak, appeared a hermit’s cell. At first they thought that it was empty, but at length a grey figure, lean and trembling as a reed, peeped forth.

“Who broke down the chapel, father?” asked Garin.

The hermit stared at him. “Fair son and sir knight, are you from the Toulouse side?”

“We have ridden two days from the westward. This is the boundary?”

The hermit looked with lack-lustre eyes, then wagged his head up and down. “Aye, fair knight and son! The lords of Toulouse and Roche-de-Frêne built the chapel, each bearing half the cost. But a band belonging to the Lord of Montmaure came this way. Its captain said that he pulled down only[192] Roche-de-Frêne’s half—but all fell! The Holy Father at Rome ought to hear of it!”

“Are Montmaure’s men still at hand?”

The hermit shook his head. “They harrowed the country and went. I saw flames all one night and heard the cries of the damned!”

Garin and those behind him rode on. Immediately the way that once had been good became bad. A bridge had spanned a swift stream, but the bridge was destroyed. A mill had stood near, but the mill was burned. There seemed no folk. They rode by trampled and blackened fields where no harvest sickles would come this year. The poppies looked like blood. Here, in a dip in the land, was what had been a village, and upon a low hill a heap of stones that had been castle or armed manor-house. There were yet fearful odours. They rode by a tree on which were hanged ten men, and a place where women and children, all crouched together, had been slain. Here were more blackened fields, splashed with poppies. The sun, now riding high, sent into every corner a searching light.

Garin and his men, leaving the ruin, rode through a great forest. They rode cautiously, keeping a lookout, neither singing nor laughing nor talking loudly. But the forest slept on either hand, and there was nothing heard but the hoofs of their horses, the song of birds, and the whirr of insects.

This forest had been known to Garin the squire. He was going now toward Raimbaut’s keep. Around[193] were the wide-branching trees, the birds flew before them, the startled hare ran, the deer plunged aside into the deeper brakes, but they met with no human life. Travelling so, they came to a broken country, wooded hills, grey falls of cliff, streams that brawled over stony beds. Garin looked from side to side, recognizing ancient landmarks. But when they rode out from the dwindling wood upon fields that should have shone and shimmered, yellowing to the harvest—these fields, too, were black with ruin. Here was a meadow that Garin knew. But no cattle stood within it, seeking the shade of the trees, and nowhere, field or meadow or narrow road, were there people. All lay silent, without motion, under the giant strength of the sun.

The road passed under the brow of a hill, turned, and he saw where had been the grim old keep and tower and wall where he had served Raimbaut the Six-fingered. In its shadow had clustered peasants’ huts. All was destroyed; he saw not a living man, not a beast, not a dog. “How like,” said Garin of the Golden Island, “are Paynimry and Christendom!”

He checked his men, and alone rode to the ruins. Dismounting, he let Noureddin crop the parched grass while he himself entered through a breach in the wall, the gateway being blocked by fallen masonry. All was desolate under the sun. The well had been filled with stones. Climbing a mass of débris, crushed wall and fallen beam and rafter,[194] he attained the interior of the keep. Here had been sword and fire; here now were the charred bones, here the writing that said how had fought Raimbaut the Six-fingered!

Garin came out of the keep and crossed the court, and, stepping through the ragged and monstrous opening in the wall, called to his men. Three hours they worked, making a grave and laying within it every charred body they found, and making one grave for the forms of a giant and of a woman who had fallen beside him.

“I knew this castle,” said Sir Garin. “This was its lord, and he could fight bravely! Nor did he fail at times of kindness done. This was its lady, and she was like him.”

At last they rode away from Raimbaut’s castle. First, came other fields that this storm had struck, then a curving arm, thick and dark, of forest. But, on the further edge of this flowed a stream where the bridge was not broken, and nearby was the hut of one who burned charcoal, and the man and woman and their children were within and living. They fell upon their knees and put up their hands for mercy.

“We are not Montmaure!” said Garin. “Jean Charcoal-burner, have you heard if they have done the like to Castel-Noir?”

The charcoal-burner, of elf locks and blackened skin, stared at the knight, and now thought that he knew him, and now that he knew him not. But[195] he had comfort to give as to Castel-Noir. He had been there within three days, and it stood. It was so small a tower and out of the way—Montmaure’s band had ignored it, or were gone for the time to set claws in other prey. “Sir Foulque?—aye, Sir Foulque lived.”

Garin came to Castel-Noir in the red flush of evening. The fir wood lay quiet and dark, haunted by memory. The stream was as ever it was. Looking up, he saw the lonely, small castle, the round tower—saw, too, a scurrying to it, from the surrounding huts, of men, women and children. They went like partridges, up the steep, grey road, across the narrow moat, and in at the gate. The drawbridge mounted, creaking and groaning.

“Ah,” said Garin with a sob in his throat, “Foulque thinks that we are foes!”

He left his men among the firs, and rode on Noureddin up the path known so well—so well! He rode without spear and shield, and unhelmed. Watchers from loophole or battlement might see only a bronzed horseman, wearing a blue surcoat, worked upon the breast with a bird with outstretched wings. When he came to the edge of the moat, beneath the wall, he checked Noureddin, sat motionless for a minute, then raised his voice. “Castel-Noir!”

A man looked over the wall. “Who and whence, and, Mother of God! whose voice are you calling with?”

[196]

“Sicart!” called Garin, “remember eight years, come Martinmas, and the serf’s dress you found me! Put the bridge down and let me in!”

Foulque met him in the gateway.

“Brother Foulque—”

“Garin, Garin—”

Fir wood, crag, and black castle travelled from the sun, faced the unlighted deeps. But an inner sun shone and warmed. The squires, the troop, had welcome and welcome again. Nothing there was that Sicart and Jean and Pol and Arnaut and all the others would not do for them! Comforts and treasures were scant, but the whole was theirs. The saints seemed benignant, so smoothly and fragrantly did matters go! Pierre found savoury food for all. And there was forage for the horses. And the courtyard on a summer night, with straw spread down, was good sleeping. But before there was sleeping, came tale-telling—a great ring gathered, with the round moon looking down, and Castel-Noir men and boys and women and girls from the huts below, listening—listening—gaping and exultant! Sir Garin of the Golden Island—and how he had taken the cross—and what he had done in the land over the sea, and the tale-tellers with him!

Fairyland had somehow come to Castel-Noir—a warm Paradise of pride in