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

the native-born, relish for brave deeds, forward felt glow from perhaps vastly better days! Through all ran a filtering of Eastern wonder. There was, too, simple veneration[197] for the slayers of paynims, for beings who had travelled in the especial country of God! The pride in Garin was strong. They had thought him dead, though some had insisted that, maybe, one day he would come back, a knight. These now basked in their own wisdom. But even they had not dreamed the whole fairy tale out! Sir Garin of the Golden Island—and how he got that name—and how he fought and how he sang and how lords and kings were fain of his company—and his brother-in-arms, Sir Aimar—and the three emirs’ ransoms! The people of Castel-Noir forgot Montmaure and danger, and were blissful that night beneath the round and golden moon.

Garin and Foulque bided within the hall, talked there, Garin pacing up and down while Foulque the Cripple gloated on him from his chair. They had torchlight, but the moonlight, too, streamed in. Garin charted for his brother the unknown sea of the years he had been away. Foulque followed him to Panemonde, to the port, to Syria—and then all the events and fortune there!

“Ha, ha!” laughed Foulque. “Ha ha! ha ha! Who knows anything in this world? Oh, dire misfortune that it seemed to have fought with Jaufre de Montmaure! And here he has given you knighthood and fame and ransom-wealth! Ha, ha, ha! Let me laugh! Yesterday I was weeping.”

“If you push things in that direction,” said Garin, “before it was Jaufre it was that herd-girl with the[198] torn dress and streaming hair! There is a path from all things to all things else.”

He stopped before a window embrasure and looked out upon the moon-flooded court and the ring of his men and the Castel-Noir men. When he turned back to Foulque they took up the years as they had gone for the black castle. They had gone without great events until had befallen this war. That being the case, the two were presently at the huge happenings in the princedom of Roche-de-Frêne. Foulque knew of the fate of Raimbaut the Six-fingered. Jean the Charcoal-burner had brought the news. Since that, Castel-Noir had stood somewhat shiveringly upon its rock, the probabilities being that its own hour was near.

And yet Foulque, and Garin with him, agreed that since the band that had entered this fief and beat down Raimbaut and his castle was now gone without finding Castel-Noir, it might not think to return upon its tracks, leaving richer prey for sparrow or hare. Foulque considered that the ravagers had been Free Companions, mercenaries bought by Montmaure from far away, not knowing nook and corner of the country they devastated. Montmaure, angered, had made his threat when Raimbaut, renouncing the immediate allegiance, held for Roche-de-Frêne. He had kept it, sending fire and death. But Castel-Noir might stay hidden in its fir wood. Foulque, a born sceptic, here showed one contrary streak. He was credulous now of all evil from Jaufre[199] de Montmaure being turned aside from aught that pertained to Garin. “Certes, not after procuring you knighthood and gold!”

Garin learned of the war at large. In the spring Prince Gaucelm had gathered a great host. Under Stephen the Marshal it had met and beaten as great a number, Count Savaric at the head. Savaric had been wounded, thrust back, him and his host, into his own land. Then had come with a greater host Jaufre de Montmaure, like an evil wind. His father, too, recovering, rushed again from Montmaure. Prince Gaucelm and all his knights and a host of men withstood them. Everywhere there was ringing of shields and flying of arrows. Where Montmaure came, came blight. A walled town had been taken and sacked; another, they said, was endangered. Rumour ran that Roche-de-Frêne itself must stand a siege. Montmaure was gathering a huge number of spears and countless footmen, and had an Italian who was making for him great engines. But naught this side waking to find to-night a dream could now weaken Foulque’s optimism! “Roche-de-Frêne’s no ripe plum to be picked and eaten! Pick thunderbolts from an oak that will outlive Montmaure!”

Foulque was reconciled, when the talk came that way, to Garin’s early departure from Castel-Noir. Neither dreamed but that he, knight and able to help, must of course go. It was his devoir. But he might bide a few days. It would presently be seen[200] if the place were indeed moderately safe, left a small, overlooked backwater. Foulque’s thin face worked with laughter. “Ha, Jaufre!—and what was it that he said touching flaying alive and razing your house? Jaufre makes me sport!” His thought drove aside from the pleasant spice of Jaufre’s men preserving just Castel-Noir. “And now he would wed the princess!”

Garin, in his pacing, crossed a shaft of moonlight. “What manner of lady is the Princess Audiart?”

“Not fair, but wise, they say. I know not,” said Foulque, “if women can be wise.”

“Ah, yes, they may!”

“I agree,” said Foulque, “that there is wisdom somewhere in not helping into the world sons of Jaufre, grandsons of Savaric!—It is said that the townspeople love the princess.”

Garin crossed again the shaft of light. “No harm has come to Our Lady in Egypt?”

“No harm that I have heard of. Count Savaric is known for a good son of the Church! He will not harm the bishop’s lands either. I hear report—I have heard that the Abbot of Saint Pamphilius saith—that if Montmaure conquers, Bishop Ugo will not be less but greater in Roche-de-Frêne.—But what,” said Foulque, “do I know in truth to tell you? A cripple, chained to this rock in a fir wood! Little of aught do I know—save that there is wickedness on earth!” He tried to be sardonic, but[201] could not. “Eh!” said Foulque. “Three emirs? And at what did they hold their lives?”

At last Castel-Noir slept, the fair moon looking down. The next day, still there held fairyland. When another day came, Garin took Paladin that had waited for him all these years, and, followed by Rainier, rode to Our Lady in Egypt. He wished to see the Abbess and ask of her a question. Eight years ago, come Martinmas, what lady had rested, a guest, with Our Lady in Egypt?

The summer woods were passing sweet—fresh and sweet under whatever strength of sun to those who had come from Syrian towns and Syrian suns. Garin rode with an open heart, smelled sweet odour, heard every song and movement, praised the green wood and the blue sky. At last they saw the olives and the vineyards of Our Lady in Egypt—at last the massy building. And now Paladin stopped before a portal that Garin remembered.... All these years, Jaufre de Montmaure had been in the back of his head, but hardly, it may be said, the herd-girl who first had struggled with Jaufre. Memory might have brought her oftener to view, but memory, when it came to women, had been preoccupied with the Fair Goal—with the lady who wore the blue, fine stuff, the gem-wrought girdle, the eastern veil! But now, sudden and vivid as life, came back the herd-girl who had ridden behind him upon this horse, who, at the convent door under the round arch, had looked back at him through dark and[202] streaming hair. The portress opened to her and she entered—rushed back the very tone and sense of blankness and of wonder with which he had regarded the closed door! “Saint Agatha! how that tastes upon my tongue!” said Garin.

He sat staring at the convent portal. Around was midday heat and stillness. Drowned in that past day, he gave no heed to a sound of approaching horsemen. But now Rainier came to his side. “Sir, there are armed men coming! Best knock and gain entrance—”

But Garin turned to see who came. A small party rode into sight beneath the convent trees—not more than a dozen horsemen. One bore, depending from a lance, a pensil of blue—the blue of Roche-de-Frêne. It hung unstirring in the windless noon. In the air of the riders there was something, one knew not what, of dejection or of portent. They came neither fast nor slow, the hoofs of the horses making a sullen sound.

Garin looked. At times there blew to him, through appearances, a wind from behind appearances. It gave no definite word, but he heard the rustling of the sibyl’s leaves. He drew Paladin a little to one side and awaited the riders. From the convent chapel rose a sound of chanting—the nuns at their office.

The cluster of horsemen arrived in the space before the convent door. The one who rode in front, a knight with grizzled hair and a stern, lean face,[203] directed an enquiry to the mounted men here before him.

Garin answered. “I am of Castel-Noir—ridden here to-day because there is that which I would ask of the Abbess Angela.”

The grizzled knight shook his head. He spoke to one of those behind him. “Strike upon the door, Raynold!” then, turning in his saddle, addressed himself to the stranger knight in the blue surcoat. “Fair sir, my lady Abbess, methinks, will not wish to deal to-day with any matters that may be set aside.”

“I see that you bring heavy tidings,” said Garin. “I fight for Roche-de-Frêne. What are they?”

“Well may you say that they are heavy! Our lord, Prince Gaucelm, is slain.”

“The prince is slain!”

“There has been a great battle, ten leagues from here.... My master!” cried the grizzled knight with sombre passion. “The best prince this land has known—Gaucelm the Good!”

Garin knew that the head of Our Lady in Egypt was a sister of the dead prince. No longer was it a day in which, after years and at last, he might ask his question. As it had waited, so must it wait still. He and Rainier rode back to Castel-Noir. The next day, with his troop behind him, he left Foulque, the black tower, and the fir wood, and the next he joined the host of Stephen the Marshal where it lay confronting Montmaure.

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