The Seven Streams

by Warwick Deeping

  The cry was vain, for he would not hear her, deeming her pity more grievous than her scorn. Despair spurred him on; the black night called. Rosamunde watched him vanish into the increasing gloom, while on the cliffs Holy Guard stood like the great gate of death.

  CHAPTER XXV

  Tristan rode through the woods from Holy Guard that autumntide fierce of heart and grim of face. He held northwards for Tor’s Tower by the rugged coast that closed the western sea, glad of his own savage strength and the rude wilderness that suited his temper. The elemental fiercenesses of life had waxed within him, and action came as a balm to his raw and rebellious spirit. With Rosamunde gone from the heavens like the chastening moon, primitive darkness had fallen around. The glimmering stars of chivalry were faint above. The wild beasts seemed akin to Tristan; he fought and slew, was even as they.

  In this wise, gaunt and wind-tanned, with rusty hauberk and unshaven chin, he came after many days to Tor’s Tower, where Samson had gathered the folk of the Seven Streams. It was a wintry evening, grey and desolate, with clouds racing in the heavens and the sea rushing towards the shore. In the woods a shower of leaves were falling, dancing and flickering to the piping of the wind.

  At Tor’s Tower the cry went up from the rude camp in the meadows to the grey walls upon the cliff: “Tristan has come, Tristan le Sauvage!”

  Savage indeed seemed the wanderer who met the greetings of these iron men, took their rough hand-grips and the waving of their steel. Unshaven, sullen, and fierce of eye, with his black hair tangled by the wind and rain, he was no gay pilgrim on his great raw-boned horse. Tristan climbed the causeway with his face towards the sea, and dismounted before the castle gate.

  Samson stood there to greet him with his hands outstretched, a warm light on his powerful face.

  “Welcome, brother, out of the south.”

  They stood and looked into each other’s eyes like men to whom silence meant more than words. Tristan’s mood could be deciphered from his face, with its pursed up mouth and sullen eyes. Samson read the truth thereon, how much Tristan had left in the Southern Marches.

  They passed together into the tower, and climbing the stairs, looked out over the battlements towards the sea. Below them stretched the marshes and the sandy shore, and in the east the woods waved their reddened banners against the night. Samson leant against the parapet and watched Tristan as he stood beside him.

  “You have failed, brother?” he said at last.

  The younger man’s face seemed to grow the more sullen. Though he had lost the buoyant zest of youth, he had gained more of the grim purpose of manhood. It was the face of a fanatic that Samson watched.

  “I have failed,” he said, simply enough, “failed and yet won, as fate did order it. The Lady Rosamunde I rescued out of Jocelyn’s hands, and set her in Holy Guard by the sea, whither I rode with her at her command.”

  “Holy Guard, brother?”

  “Rosamunde’s heart was towards the place. What could my ugly face make of love?”

  On that wind-swept tower Tristan told Samson of his wanderings in the south. He recounted how he had joined the Bishop’s men and sojourned in Agravale two months or more. He told how he had ridden with Jocelyn and Ogier to the madhouse in the mere, how he had slain Ogier, and found Rosamunde and his sister’s grave. Lastly, he confessed to Rosamunde’s weariness of the world, and told how he had left her in Holy Guard by the sea.

  When he had ended, Samson spoke to him, looking tenderly on his face.

  “You are with us yet, brother, despite the past?”

  “My sword is yours——”

  “Till we have slain Jocelyn.”

  “And hurled down Agravale into the dust.”

  They passed down from the tower, for the wind was keen and the night was gathering in the east. Samson had news upon his tongue, and as they paced the court together, he told Tristan of all that had passed since he had wandered in the south. A champion had risen up to preserve the province of the Seven Streams and to fling a broad shield over the broken land.

  Blanche, Duchess of the Northern Wilds, had fallen in the past under the spell of Samson’s preaching, and with her nobles she had received the heresy. That same summer the noise of the dark deeds done in the province of the Seven Streams had come to her over the southern borders. Being a woman of heroic temper, she had risen in wrath over the burning of Ronan’s town and the slaughter Jocelyn’s men had made in the land. She had summoned her liegemen to her in her city by the northern sea, and had put before them the wrongs of the Seven Streams.

  “For,” quoth she to her knights and freemen, “Pope or no Pope, let us end this butchery. Since our lord the King cannot keep peace in his provinces, by our Lord Christ in heaven, I, Blanche the Duchess, will stay the strong from murdering the weak.”

  Now the King who ruled those lands was but the creature of a lawless court, the tool of fair women, the puppet of the priests. His great vassals flouted him when they would, and made war on each other like petty kings, filling the land with war and turmoil. Hence Blanche that autumntide had crossed her borders, and daring her suzerain to hinder her, had marched with her men for the Seven Streams. Of all this Samson told Tristan as they paced the court under the darkening sky.

  Thus early that winter, at Samson’s desire, Tristan rode out with a hundred spears to bring the Duchess Blanche to Tor’s Tower by the sea. It was gusty weather, with the grey sky smitten through with stormy light and the woods scattering their last largesse of gold to the wind. Tristan rode over the moors with his hundred men, and about noon on the second day saw the lances of the Duchess’s men pricking along a sandy track that wound amid knolls of heather towards the sea.

  Tristan, having sent forward a herald, watched their oncoming from the crest of a low hill. A woman rode in the near van, mounted on a great white horse, its harness of scarlet leather bossed with gold. She was clad in green, and carried a light spear with a silver pennon tongueing from its throat. Tristan doubted not that she was the Duchess, the most splendid woman of her age, who had saved her duchy by her own good courage from the greedy onslaughts of many neighbouring lords. She had built up a strong power in the north, and her people worshipped her almost as a saint.

  Tristan rode down and met the Duchess at the head of her men. She was a big woman, whose jet black hair was thickly streaked with silvery strands. Her face was as fresh as a young girl’s, with but few wrinkles about the eyes that beamed and flashed over the world. From her stately throat to her large white hands, she was full of rich and vigorous life. No longer young, she had kept her beauty, even as good fruit mellows under the autumn sun.

  Tristan bent the knee to her without constraint, for from the first glance he had taken her measure, and marked the queenliness that all true men honoured. She sat on her white horse and looked him over as he stood in the road with his drawn sword set point downwards in the sand. As for Tristan, he felt that the woman’s eyes searched and considered his whole heart, and that honour stood for fame before her face.

  “So, sir, you are from Tor’s Tower?” she said to him, smiling down. “My war-wolves follow me to give Samson succour. Think you we can make the place by night?”

  “It is some ten leagues to Tor’s Tower,” Tristan answered her, “and too much marching will tire your men.”

  “Let it be on the morrow, then,” she said; “he is in no need of us for a day, I trow.”

  She bade Tristan mount and ride at her side, while the long spears bristled over the sandy heath, and the banner of the Bleeding Cross flapped in the wind. Behind them over the dusky slopes came the rough warriors of the north, bronzed, bearded men, big of bone and burly of limb. Their axes hung at their saddle bows, their long shields blinked towards the sea.

  The Duchess questioned Tristan as he rode at her side concerning Samson’s power and the state of the Seven Streams. There were many strong places that had been garrisoned by the Bishop’s men, such as Sanguelac and Merdin and Marvail by th
e fords of the Lorient. Tristan told her all he knew as to Jocelyn’s garrisons and Samson’s fortune. He discovered that the Duchess was well versed in war, that she had a stout heart and a generous instinct. She recalled to him Rosamunde whom he had left in Holy Guard, save that she was older by some fifteen years, and had more strength and sureness of courage.

  All that day Tristan rode at her side, under the ken of her fearless eyes. She was not a woman a true man could dissemble with, for she possessed that strange charm that forbade reserve, that natural sincerity that commanded trust. Before many hours had passed Tristan’s tongue was running briskly as for some friend. His strong face and his grim manner pleased the woman, for she was one who hated a perfumed sprig, and could not suffer a honeyed tongue.

  Thus, gracious lady that she was, she soon had Tristan at her service. The man told her much of his life, how he had sailed in search of his sister, and fallen in with the heretics of the Seven Streams. He told her also of his sojourn in the south, how he had found his sister’s grave and had sworn vengeance over it against Jocelyn of Agravale. But of Rosamunde of Ronan’s town he said but little, for he would not speak of that which concerned his heart.

  They came that night to a lonely tower on the hills, and lodged there until the morning. Blanche had gathered that Tristan was no knight, but a mere soldier of circumstance, whose honest sword was of more worth than an ancient title. Therefore she called him before her that same evening and gave him knighthood at her hands. On the morrow they marched on towards the sea, and saw Tor’s Tower rise on its rocky height.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  In Agravale there was much blowing of trumpets, much burnishing of arms. The women of the city had drawn forth all their gay stuffs, their gold tissues and fripperies, and much scarlet cloth. The streets teemed with soldiery gathered from all the southern baronies, and there were many knights and nobles in Agravale, the city was full of the clangour of war. The hostels were full to over-flowing; each house was a tavern where the wine ran red.

  The dragon of Heresy had lifted its head once more out of the dust, and the Papal spies had come in from the Seven Streams, telling how Samson was gathering men at Tor’s Tower by the sea. The tidings had gone out through the Southern Marches that a second crusade had been ordained by Heaven against these whelps who blasphemed the Church. The Pope had despatched his legates through the duchy, threatening the half-hearted, blessing the zealous. The Great Father had sent a sacred banner to Agravale, consecrated to the cause of the soldiers of God. The Golden Keys of Heaven flew thereon. Jocelyn, who had been ordained Bishop of the Crusade, had set the banner in St. Pelinore’s great church, where the people might gaze on it and bless God and the Pope.

  One winter noon Jocelyn walked in the cloisters of the abbey of St. Pelinore, with Christopher the Canon at his side. For an hour they had been stalking to and fro on the sunny side, with the carved heads on the corbels grinning one against another. Jocelyn and the Canon were alone in the cloisters; more than once a deep chuckle had seemed to answer the grinning faces above.

  “Brother, we must prevent the ignorant from blaspheming,” said the Bishop, with a mobile smile upon his mouth.

  Christopher sniggered.

  “Ah, my lord, I have had such troubles myself. The man must be muzzled, in the cause of the Church.”

  “Drink the wine and break the pitcher, eh?—such is the fable. This watch-dog of mine has come crawling to my feet. I can spurn him anon, when the truth is out.”

  Christopher comforted his superior with the ready glibness of an underling. He was a man of the world in the broader sense, had the wit to ignore unflattering veracity.

  “David, my lord,” he said, “I regard as one of the most comforting figures in all history. As for St. Augustine, he enjoyed his youth. ’Tis the main purpose of a man’s life that tells. Many a river errs right and left before it finds the sea.”

  “A beneficent doctrine,” quoth the other, with a glint of the eye.

  Pandart had come through the wilds to Agravale, and had claimed private audience of the Bishop that day. The man had waited these three months in the island hermitage for Jocelyn and his men—who never came. The Bishop had sojourned over long in the madhouse in the mere, and had returned to Agravale without riding to speak with Rosamunde of the Seven Streams. He had sent a servant to warn Ogier and Tristan of his return, but the man had lost himself in the woods, and had trudged back to Agravale, weary and half-starved. Each day Jocelyn had thought to hear Ogier’s deep voice thundering through the court. Later he had scented treason, and had sent a company of “spears” to seek out the river hermitage and to bring Pandart to Agravale.

  That same noon, Jocelyn, returning from the cloisters of St. Pelinore, found Pandart awaiting him in the private oratory of the palace. Sable curtains shut out the daylight. The coloured mosaics on floor and wall glimmered in the light of a brazen lamp. Jocelyn barred the door so that he should be alone with his minion before the little altar. He seated himself in a carved chair, so that his face was in the shadow.

  “Come, whelp, what have you to tell?”

  Pandart prostrated himself, kissed the Bishop’s shoe, remained kneeling with his clumsy head bowed down between his shoulders. He dreaded the truths that were upon his tongue, and it was only when Jocelyn spurned him that he began to speak.

  “Ogier is dead, my lord,” he said.

  Jocelyn started in his chair, held out a quivering arm, half in wrath, half in dismay.

  “Ogier dead!”

  “Sire, I found his carcass in the woods; wolves had mangled it, but I knew the face.”

  “Whose hand did this?”

  “Tristan his comrade, who served in the guard.”

  Jocelyn fingered his smooth round chin. The natural cunning had crept into his face; he hid his wrath and dissembled fear, and for the moment his voice lost its priestly drawl.

  “What of the woman Rosamunde?” he asked.

  Pandart grovelled on the stones.

  “This same Tristan took her from us.”

  “Ye gods, man, did you not fight?”

  “My lord, this Tristan slew Ogier; he was too great for me. He would have slain me also had not the Lady Rosamunde held his hand.”

  Jocelyn remained silent, staring down at Pandart’s face with its heavy servility and gaping fear. The man’s words had an import he could not ignore. Ogier, venal champion of the Church, was dead, and Rosamunde had escaped with Tristan into the woods.

  “What more?” he asked anon, his black eyes gleaming in the light of the lamp, as he saw that Pandart had not ended his confession.

  “My lord, concerning Columbe, whom Ogier slew——”

  Jocelyn twisted in his chair, for the theme was bitter, and beyond his dignity. The realisation of Pandart’s knowledge was no pleasant draught to the episcopal palate.

  “Whelp, what of Columbe?”

  “This same Tristan was the girl’s brother.”

  “Her brother?”

  “He had tricked you in Agravale that he might learn the truth.”

  Jocelyn started up and began to stride to and fro within the narrow compass of the walls. His hands played with the gold cross at his breast, and he frowned often, worked his white teeth upon his full red lip. Pandart knelt before the empty chair, watching his master with furtive awe. He had dreaded this truth-telling for many weeks.

  “Well, fool, what else?”

  Jocelyn stood and scowled at Pandart, evil prophet that he was. It was in his mood to vent his viciousness upon the man, since he was impotent to harm those who had baulked his passions.

  “What more would my lord know?”

  “Ape, what followed? Where is this Rosamunde?”

  “The man Tristan rode with her into the woods.”

  “Whither?”

  Pandart spread his hands; his broad mouth twitched.

  “My lord, I overheard certain words of theirs,” he said, “while I played eavesdropper in the garden. The wo
man spoke of the abbey of Holy Guard by the sea. She would turn nun. The man Tristan vowed to guard her thither.”

  “To Holy Guard, eh?”

  “Sire, so they said.”

  Jocelyn stood awhile in thought, biting his nails, staring at the wall. He dismissed Pandart with certain grim words of warning, scanning his face narrowly for signs of treachery. When the man had gone to the scullion quarters, Jocelyn sent for Nicolon his chamberlain. He told him that Pandart was a spy and a traitor, sent to search out Agravale by the heretics of the Seven Streams. Nicolon understood from the Bishop that he was to poison Pandart that same night.

  It was the day of the gathering of the nobles of the Southern Marches at the Duchess’s house, to hear the reading of the Pope’s letter concerning the conduct of the crusade. Jocelyn went thither in his robes of state, his pastoral staff borne before him as he was carried through Agravale on an open litter with a canopy of purple cloth above. The canons and priests of Agravale followed in his train. Behind the clerics came the knights and retainers of the episcopal palace, with the Pope’s sacred banner blowing in their midst. The townsfolk crowded the streets, as the nobles marched through with full panoply of arms, trumpets blowing, spears agleam. The women knelt as Jocelyn was carried by; the men crossed themselves and bared their heads.

  “God save the Scourge of the heretics,” ran the cry.

  “God save Bishop Jocelyn.”

  “God help the south.”

  With unctuous sanctity upon his face, Jocelyn was borne through the streets of Agravale. Pomp and colour played around; the iron men of war followed hard on his heels. Yet Jocelyn was deaf to the shouts of the mob, and their superstitious homage failed for the nonce to fire his vanity. A woman’s face shone before the churchman’s eyes, splendid with scorn and unconquerable beauty, and he licked his lips over his unclean thinking.

  In the great hall of Dame Lilias’s palace Jocelyn took his episcopal chair beside the Duchess on the dais. His clerks and canons thronged the table below. The benches were crowded with knights and captains, iron men in hauberk and helm. As for Lilias, her vanity had climbed to the occasion, and she had clad herself in a silver hauberk, with a coronet of steel cushioned on her fair hair. A dwarf sword was laid across her lap, as she sat under her canopy, with green lilies blazoned on the scarlet drapings of her chair.