Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Fortunes of Garin by Mary Johnston (romantic novels in english .txt) 📖
- Author: Mary Johnston
Book online «The Fortunes of Garin by Mary Johnston (romantic novels in english .txt) 📖». Author Mary Johnston
She spoke to him with her forthright graciousness. “Fair sir, are you for Roche-de-Frêne?”
“Aye,” said Garin. “I come from the host, bearer of a letter to the princess from my lord Stephen the Marshal. If, lady, you are she—”
“I am Audiart,” said the princess, and held out her hand for the letter.
Garin bent his knee, took from his breast the letter wrapped in silk, and gave it. The princess drew off her glove, broke the seal and read, sitting the white Arabian by the murmuring spring. Those with her waited without movement that might disturb. Trees of the grove whispered in the evening air, splashed gold from the sun lay here and there like[216] fairy wealth. The marshal wrote of ambushments, attacks, repulses, conflicts where Roche-de-FrĂŞne had been victorious. But the two counts were together now, and the odds were great. New men had come to them from Aquitaine. The host was great of spirit, and he, Stephen the Marshal, would do his best. But let none be dismayed if there came some falling back toward the town. So the frank marshal, a good general and truth-teller.
The princess read, sat for a moment with her eyes upon the light falling through the trees, then spoke, giving to her knights the substance of the letter. “So it runs, sirs! So the wheel turns and turns, and no mind can tell—But the mind may be courageous, though it knows not the body’s fortunes.”
She folded the marshal’s letter, put it within her silken purse, and drew on her glove. She spoke to Garin. “How do they call you, sir? Are you man of ours?”
“I am your man, lady. I am Garin, younger brother of Foulque of Castel-Noir, and I am likewise called Garin of the Golden Island.”
“Ride beside us to the town,” said the princess, “and give tidings of the host.”
Garin mounted Noureddin. Rainier bore his helmet and shield. The company left the grove for the open road. The road and all the earth lay in the gold of evening, and in the distance, lifted against the clear sapphire of the east, was Roche-de-FrĂŞne.[217] Garin rode beside the princess and gave the news of the host. She questioned with keen intelligence, and he answered, it seemed, to her liking.
When she had gained what she wished, she rode for a time in silence, then, “I knew not that Foulque of Castel-Noir had a brother.”
“Years ago,” said Garin, “I took the cross and went to Palestine. This summer I came home and found the land afire. With two score men I left Castel-Noir, and with them joined the marshal and the host.”
“He speaks of you in his letter and gives you high praise. It is Lord Stephen’s way to praise justly.”
“I would do my devoir,” said Garin.
Roche-de-Frêne lay before them. Castle and town and all the country roundabout were bathed by a light golden and intense. “Garin de l’Isle d’Or,” said the princess. “There is a troubadour named so—and he sang, too, in the land beyond the sea. Are you he?”
“Yes.”
“You sing of one whom you name the Fair Goal?”
“Aye, princess,” said Garin. “She is my lady.”
“Lives she in this land?”
“I know not. I have been in her presence but once—and that was long ago. I think that she lives afar.”
“Ah,” thought the princess, “behold your poet-lover, straining and longing toward he knows not what nor whom—save that it is afar!” Aloud she[218] said, “If we are besieged in Roche-de-Frêne brave songs, as well as brave deeds, will have room.”
Turning to the south and then to the east they rode by the river and so came to the fosse, ramparts, and towers, guardians of the bridge-head, and then upon the bridge itself. Right and left they saw the gilded water, in front the hill of Roche-de-Frêne, with, for diadem, the strong town walled and towered, and high and higher yet, the mighty castle. The horses’ hoofs made a deep sound, then they were away from the bridge and climbing the road to the river-gate. A horn was winded, clear and silver. Now they were riding through the streets, filled with folk. Garin thought of an autumn day, and looked at the tower of the cathedral, higher now than then.... The street climbed upward, the castle loomed, vast as a dream in the violet light.
“The castle will give you lodging, sir knight,” said the princess.
Here was the moat, across it Red Tower and Lion Tower. Garin looked up at the great blue banner, and then along the battlements to where waved the green of the garden trees. Again there flashed into mind that autumn day, and that he had wondered if ever he would enter here, a knight, and serve his suzerain.
[219]
GARIN AND JAUFRE
With a great host Montmaure encamped before Roche-de-Frêne and overran the champaign half way around. Of the remainder, one fourth was, so to speak, debatable ground,—now the field of the blue banner and now that of the green and silver. The final fourth was stubbornly held by Stephen the Marshal and the host. This gave to the east and included the curve of the river, the bridge and its towers, and the road by which still travelled, from unharried lands, food for the beleaguered town.
Montmaure’s tents covered the plain. Off into the deep summer woods fringed the myriad of camp-followers, sutlers, women, thieves, outlawed persons. But the fighting mass showed from the besieged town like a magic and menacing carpet spread half around it, creeping and growing to complete the ring. What was for the time a great army besieged Roche-de-Frêne.
The barons, vassals or allies of Montmaure, had each his quarter where he planted his standard, and whence he led in assault the men who called him lord. The Free Companies pitched among vineyards or where had been vineyards. The spears from Aquitaine and a huge number of bowmen covered[220] thickly old wheat-fields, pastures, and orchards. Near as might safely be to the walls of Roche-de-Frêne,—so near that the din of the town might be heard, that the alarum bell, when it rang, rocked loud in their ears,—were raised, in the fore-front of tents as numerous as autumn sheaves, the pavilions of Count Savaric and of his son, Count Jaufre. It was August weather, hot and thunderous.
Jaufre de Montmaure came to the door of his pavilion and looked at the hill, the town and castle of Roche-de-FrĂŞne. Behind the three were storm clouds, over them storm light. The banner of the Princess Audiart flew high. Against the grey, heaped vapour it showed like an opening into blue sky.
Each day and every day assaults were made. One was now in progress, directed against the bridge-head, very visible from Jaufre’s tent. Aimeric the Bastard led it, and Aimeric was a fierce warrior, followed by men whose only trade was fighting. The atmosphere was still, hushed, grey, and sultry, dulling the noise that was made. The mass of the force was not concerned.
Jaufre stood, tall and red-gold, hawk-nosed, and with a scar across his cheek. He was without armour and lightly clothed, to meet the still heat. Upon the ground without the tent had been spread skins of wild beasts. He spoke over his shoulder, then, moving to these skins, threw himself down upon them. Unconquered town and castle, the present attack[221] upon the bridge, the slow coming of the storm, the blue, undaunted banner could best be noted just from here. A squire brought a flagon of wine from the tent and set it beside him.
Out of a pavilion fifty yards away came Count Savaric, and crossed the space to his son. With an inner tardiness Jaufre rose from the skins and stood. “I have sent word to Gaultier Cap-du-Loup to take his Company to Aimeric’s help,” said Count Savaric. He took a seat that they brought him.
Count Jaufre lay down again upon the skins. There held the grey breathlessness and light of the slow-travelling storm.
Count Savaric watched the dust-cloud that hid the bridge-head, obscuring the strong tower and the supporting works that Roche-de-FrĂŞne had built and, with the aid of its encamped host, yet held against all assault.
But Jaufre regarded moodily the walled town and the castle. He spoke. “This tent has stood here a month to-day, and we have buried many knights.”
“Just,” answered Count Savaric. “Barons and knights and a host of the common people. A great jewel is a costly thing!”
“I miss my comrade, Hugues le Gai. And Richard will not lightly take the loss of Guy of Perpignan.”
“Duke Richard knows how jewels cost.”
Jaufre waved a sinewy hand toward Roche-de-Frêne. The half-light and the storm in the air edged[222] his mood. “Well, they will pay!” he said. He lay silent for a minute, then spoke again, but more to himself than to Count Savaric. “Until lately I took that woman yonder—” he jerked a thumb toward the high, distant, blue banner,—”for the mere earth I must take in hand to get the diamond of Roche-de-Frêne! So I had the diamond, the bride that came with it was no great matter. She had no beauty, they said. But, Eye of God! there were other women on earth! They are plentiful. Take this one that went with the diamond, get sons upon her, and let her be silent.... Now, I care less for the diamond, I think, than to humble the Princess Audiart!”
Count Savaric, leaning forward, regarded the bridge-end. “Gaultier Cap-du-Loup is there.... Ha, they send men to meet him! That may develop—”
The castle loomed against the grey curtain of cloud. The minutiæ of the place appeared to enlarge, intensify. Each detail grew individual, stubborn, a fortress in itself. The whole mocked like the heaped clouds. “Ha, my Lady Audiart!” said Jaufre, “who will not have me for lord—who takes a sword in her hand and fights me—”
He sat up upon the skins, poured himself a cup of wine, and drank.
His father, looking still at the bridge-tower, rose with suddenness to his feet. “The lord of Chalus and his men are going in! There must be yonder half Stephen the Marshal’s force! The plain stirs. Ha! best arm—”
[223]
Jaufre rose now also. There was a gleam in his eye. “Breath of God!” he said. “I feel to-day like battle!”
His squires armed him. While they worked the trumpets blew, rousing every segment of the camp. Trumpets answered from beyond the bridge. In the town the alarum bell began its deep ringing. The day turned sound and motion. Count Savaric left his tent, mounted a charger that was brought, and spurred to the head of a press of knights. The colours of the plain shifted to the eye; dust hung above the head of the bridge and all the earth thereabouts; out of it came a heavy sound with shouting. The area affected increased; it was evident that there might ensue a considerable, perhaps a general, battle. It was as though a small stir in the air had unexpectedly spread to whirlwind dimensions. And all the time the sky hung moveless, with an iron tint.
They armed Jaufre in chain-mail, put over this a green surcoat worked with black, attached his spurs, laced his helmet, gave him knightly belt and two-edged sword, held the stirrup while he mounted the war horse, gave him shield and spear. He looked a red-gold giant, and he was a bold fighter, and many a man followed him willingly. He shook his spear at the castle, and at the banner waving above the huge donjon. “Ha, Audiart the Wise! Watch now your lord do battle!”
Around the bridge-head, where Stephen the Marshal[224] had his host, the battle sprang into being with an unexpectedness. There had been meant but a heavier than ordinary support to the endangered barriers, a stronger outward push against Aimeric the Bastard and Gaultier Cap-du-Loup. But the tension of the atmosphere, the menace and urge, the storm-light affected alike Roche-de-Frêne and Montmaure. Each side threw forward more men and more. From the bridge-head the shock and clamour ate into the plain. The mêlée deepened and spread. Suddenly, with a trampling and shouting, a lifting of dust to the skies, the whole garment was rent. There arrived, though none had looked for it on this day, general battle.... The leaders appeared, barons and famed knights. Here was the marshal, valiant and cool, bestriding a great steed, cheering on his people, wielding himself a strong sword. The battle was over open earth, and among the tents and quarters of the soldiery, and against and from the cover of the works that guarded the bridge. Now it shrieked and thundered in the space between the opposing camps, now among the tents of Roche-de-Frêne and now among those of Montmaure. Banners dipped and fell and rose again, were advanced or withdrawn. There were a huge number of banners, bright-hued, parti-coloured. They showed amid the dust like giant flowers torn from a giant garden and tossed in air. It became a fell struggle, where riderless war horses galloped hither and yon, and the footmen fought hard with pike and sword,[225] and the crossbowmen sent their bolts, and the archers sent whistling flights of arrows. And
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