Thus when Blanche’s trumpets rang out before the walls there came no shrill counterblast, no bristling up of spears. They seemed to challenge a city of the dead, white and voiceless, sunk in the mystery of the solemn woods. The gates were open, the streets silent, the towers and battlements devoid of life. There was no brave clamour to tell of courage, no clangour of bells, no blowing of trumpets.
Lothaire and his captains had suspected treachery at first, some subtle trap or priestly ambush.
“Tread warily, madame,” he said to his lady. “Who knows what devilry lurks in such silence?”
Cautious even in victory, they sent advance guards into the city, not only to hold the gates, but to search places, churches and abbeys, where armed men might lie in hiding. Company after company had clattered in, with no sound to greet them save the clangour of their horses’ hoofs. The streets were silent, the houses empty, the church gates open, the gardens deserted. In St. Pelinore’s they had found a few infirm folk who had taken sanctuary before the altar, while the very dogs seemed to have fled the city.
Thus when Tristan and Rosamunde came from the Mad Mere with their hundred men, Agravale of the south was in Blanche’s hands. She had quartered her men within the walls, but had made no state entry into the city. Nor had she suffered Columbe’s coffin to be taken in, remembering her promise to Tristan in this matter.
On the morrow after Tristan’s joining the Duchess, they marched into Agravale with banners flying, trumpets pealing through the empty streets. Eight men of Samson’s company carried Columbe’s coffin upon their shoulders, Tristan walking bareheaded behind the body, with Blanche and Rosamunde following at his heels. After them came the Duchess’s knights, their shields covered, their swords reversed. Yet Tristan had ordered the bells to be rung, the trumpets to be blown as though for a victory. Had he not taken Columbe from her grave of shame to tomb her royally within the walls of Agravale?
Thus with bell a-swing, arms clanging, trumpets screaming, they came through the wide and splendid streets to the great church of St. Pelinore. On either hand rose the rich houses of white stone, and the broad gardens brimming with early flowers. At the gate of the church Tristan stood aside with drawn sword, suffered Blanche and Rosamunde to pass in before him. Above shone the painted roof, on either side the tall bejewelled windows, panels of colour let into the grey wall. Columbe’s coffin was carried up the aisle, into the choir, past the carved stalls to where the high altar shone with alabaster and gold. Tristan mounted the seven steps, turned and faced the knights and the rough soldiery.
“Sirs,” he said, bending his head towards the Duchess, “by God’s grace, and this good lady’s nobleness, we are masters of Agravale and of the Southern Marches. Yonder lies Columbe of Purple Isle, even my sister, whom Jocelyn slew by Ogier’s sword. By your good grace I will bury her here, even under the high altar of the southern saint, Pelinore.”
The whole church cheered him, smote their shields, the thunder of the voices beating upon the roof. Many of the men who had followed Tristan and Samson ran to the outbuildings where tools were stored, came back bearing picks and bars of iron. Tristan pointed them to the altar.
“Break down this table for me,” he cried, with upraised sword. “Carve me a grave that will hold my sister.”
Silence fell upon the mass of steel-capped heads that filled the church from wall to wall. Desecration—but what of that? Was a broken grave worse than an outraged hearth, than homeless women or murdered men? Soon came the sharp clangour of pick and bar as Tristan’s soldiers broke the altar. Alabaster and marble, gold work and precious stones came crumbling down the whitened steps, till the altar became a ruinous heap, its pomp a pile of dust and rubble, glistening with gold work and gleaming gems. Beneath four great flagstones that the men had laid bare was tombed the body of St. Pelinore.
Under these stones they came upon a leaden coffin, with a cross of tarnished gold riveted thereon. In the grave were a staff, a pair of sandals, and a faded robe. For the moment the men recoiled from the coffin and the relics of a saint. Tristan, seeing their moral quandary, sprang over the pile of rubbish into the grave and touched the leaden coffin with his sword.
“What of Holy Guard, Sir Saint?” he said. “Thou who persecutest in visions, rise up and prove thy power.”
No sound came from the silence save the heavy breathing of the men who had broken down the altar. Tristan stood back from the grave, smiled at the mute faces of his men, pointed them to the coffin with his sword.
“I have broken the spell, sirs,” he said. “This good saint will not save his church.”
They took heart and obeyed him, lifted the coffin out, laid it in the choir betwixt the stalls where Samson’s heretics were gathered. Into the grave they lowered Columbe’s body, replaced the stones, piled back at Tristan’s bidding the broken fragments of the altar. Only Blanche and Rosamunde remained while Tristan knelt there awhile and prayed.
When he arose they both came to him, like Hope and Charity who had attended at the burial of Faith.
“God give you joy, Tristan,” said the Duchess. “Columbe is avenged. Turn now, let all dark thoughts elapse.”
He looked at them both and smiled.
“The night is past,” he said.
Blanche had taken Rosamunde by the hand.
“And here, oh my brother, is your dawn.”
They went out into the sunny forecourt where the men were burying the coffin of St. Pelinore under an orange tree. Once more the great church was steeped in solitude, the sunlight plashing through the coloured glass, the arches wreathed with shadowy gloom. Yet the rosary with its stones of white and green would be trodden no more by the penitents of Agravale. An Isaurian spirit had inspired Tristan towards the church, yet he was no mere image-breaker in his victory. The great church of St. Pelinore should cover with its ruins the grave of Columbe, his dead sister.
Thus the great work began. Knight and soldier seized an axe and pick, broke down the altars and images and the rich frescoes. They threw down the buttresses, sapped the piers and pillars at their foundations, breached the walls and mined them in many places. By sunset the whole church tottered, the great tower trembled, the pillars fell. It was then that they fastened twenty stout ropes about the knees of the great central piers. Every man quitted the doomed church and ran out to watch its final overthrow.
At the flash of Tristan’s sword the men in the square set their hands to the ropes and drew together with a loud shout. The two southern piers, sapped at their foundations, tottered, broke, and came down like thunder. For a moment the tall tower quivered and stood. Then came the rending of the walls, the heavy downrush of the roof. Pillars crashed down like smitten Titans; a cloud of dust rushed to the heavens. Even as the temple of the Philistines fell beneath Samson’s strength, so the church of St. Pelinore sank in ruins over Columbe’s grave.
CHAPTER XL
About the White Palace far south of the Great Mountains were pitched a thousand tents, some under the shadows of the wooded heights, others on the banks of a broad river. The palace stood on a hill in the midst of a valley, like a white casket wonderfully carved set upon a pedestal of green marble. In its gardens fountains played amid groves of roses, myrtles, and orange trees. Huge cypresses rose against the gleaming walls, overshadowing beds of purple flowers, white marble stairways, tranquil pools. Towards the deep blue dome of the sky, tower, turret, and minaret mimicked the white peaks of the distant mountains.
About the White Palace on its hill were gathered the armies of Serjabil the Caliph. Pious Moslem that he was, a turbulent man with a heart of fire, he had sent a letter through all his caliphate to such as served Allah and loved the Crescent.
“In the name of the most merciful God, Serjabil to all true believers, joy and greatness be upon you. By the most high God and Mohammed his Prophet, this is to declare that I would send our arms against the infidels who have fallen upon each other beyond the mountains. For behold fighting for the truth is
obedience to God. Therefore gather to me, children of the faith, with bow and spear, buckler and scimitar, that we may destroy the infidels, and beat down the Cross into the dust.”
In the great Hall of the Ambassadors sat Serjabil in his ivory chair, a hundred carved pillars dwindling around into the golden gloom of the deepening eve. The ceiling of the hall was of cedar wood, inlaid with silver and lapis lazuli. The walls were covered with tiles of azure and green; the pillars and arches decorated with arabesques and letters of beaten gold. The floor was of white marble, the hangings of scarlet silk.
Serjabil wore a green turban enriched with rubies. His red robe was edged with rare fur over a tunic that was white as the marble floor. In his belt shone a jewelled scimitar, and before him on a desk of cedar wood was laid the Koran—the book of the Prophet.
Serjabil’s black eyes gleamed and sparkled in his dusky face. It was the face of a man who was both a soldier and a sage, one who possessed the heart of a Kaled and the wisdom of an Ali knit together. About him were gathered the great ones of his land, emirs with snow-white beards, merchant princes, soldiers, scribes. They were gathered there in Serjabil’s palace to hear his commands concerning the war.
Before Serjabil’s chair stood Hassan the poet, a thin-featured man, with a short black beard. The Caliph had called him forth from the throng to utter panegyrics in praise of war.
“Oh Hassan,” were the Caliph’s words, “to what would you liken the servant of God who destroyeth the heathen and obeyeth the Prophet?”
The poet salaamed, and touched with his lips a little charm that he wore at his neck on a silver chain.
“Oh Lion of God,” quoth he, stretching out his hands, “who shall dare to praise the great? Behold, have I not seen the sun in his strength roll back the mists out of the valleys and launch his chariots over the hills? The hearts of the holy hunger for battle, for the sound of the sword and the cry of the trumpet. To the sun would I liken the Lion of God, who giveth life to the children of men, even life in death, and in death paradise.”
Serjabil took a brooch from his red robe, a brooch set with precious stones, and cast it on the floor at Hassan’s feet.
“Oh son of the golden mouth,” he said, “God give ye joy of the true belief.”
Hassan bowed low and took the brooch.
“Methinks,” he cried, with his face afire, “that I see the black-eyed girls of heaven gazing upon us from their scented gardens.”
At a sign from Serjabil two black slaves brought a man in shackles from a neighbouring alcove. It was Thibaut the Apostate, a renegade priest, who had fled from Agravale over the mountains. He had received many wrongs at Jocelyn’s hands, and in his shame he had abjured the Cross, and turned Mohammedan to serve his ends.
Standing before Serjabil’s chair, with the huge Æthiopians towering above him, Thibaut told of the state of the Christian provinces, and of the turbulence and vanity that reigned therein. He told how Samson had arisen in the Seven Streams, and had spread his heresy among the people till the Pope had decreed a crusade against him and the barons of the south had marched to war. Thibaut described the lands north of the mountains as empty and ruinous, rotten with decay. The Cross had been carried against the Cross, so that the Christians had sapped each other’s strength. The Southern Marches, ay, and the Seven Streams, waited for the conqueror who should come with the sword.
When Thibaut had spoken, Serjabil arose and laid his hand on the open Koran.
“In the name of God,” he said, “and of Mohammed His Prophet, shall we not march against these fools? Behold, we are strong, we are not divided. While these Christians quarrel, let us cross the mountains.”
Many dark eyes kindled at the words; hands were stretched towards the Sacred Book, swords drawn and held towards the cedarn roof. The dusky faces shone with zeal, and white teeth gleamed behind coal-black beards. Serjabil drew his scimitar from its sheath, kissed the naked blade whereon were carved texts from the Koran and the names of his ancestors.
“La illah il Allah,” cried they all with the dim, strange ardour of the East, “let us march, oh Lion, against the Cross.”
Then through the shadowy galleries, under the dreamy arches, came the cry of a muezzin from the minaret in the great court—
“To prayer, to prayer.”
For it was the hour before sunset, when the hills were red above the cypress thickets and the golden meads. Silence had fallen in the hall where black slaves knelt with bowls full of water under the blue and silver roof. The solemn worshippers cleansed themselves, washing face, hands, and neck before falling to prayer. Every turbaned head was bowed towards the east, while the prayers went up through the many arches into the gold of the evening sky.
When Serjabil rose from off his knees, he closed the Koran upon its stand of cedar wood, and passed out to the stone-paved terrace that looked over the valley towards the woods. Beneath lay the palace garden, its dark thickets steeped in the odour of a myriad flowers. Soldiers and scribes followed the Caliph, their many-coloured turbans like a rich parterre against the whiteness of the palace walls.
Beneath in the valley stood the tents of Serjabil’s camp. The Saracens had risen from the grass where they had knelt in prayer, their faces towards the east. Seeing the Caliph upon the walls, they raised a loud shout, stretched up their hands to him.
“La illah il Allah,” came the cry, “oh Lion of Heaven, the Prophet preserve thee.”
Many ran to where their horses were tethered, loosed them, mounted, and took spear and shield. They galloped and circled over the meadows, tossing their lances high in the air, making mimic onslaughts, troop against troop. Their wild cries rang over rock and river as the sun went down into the west.
Serjabil stood close by the parapet with Thibaut the Apostate by his side.
“Behold,” he cried to those around him, “how the crescent moon climbs into the sky. She shall shine full on us that night when we cross the mountains.”
CHAPTER XLI
Tristan was still at Agravale with some two hundred men, when a mob of peasant folk came into the city, bringing with them a lean, half-starved southron who had fled to Agravale over the mountains. The man had served as a slave in Serjabil’s palace, and being wise as to the Caliph’s schemes of conquest, he had dared martyrdom and fled for the north. Two other Christians who had shared his flight had been taken and beheaded on the road. The third had gained the mountains in safety, and having crossed by the pass known as St. Isidore’s Gate, had descended into the lowlands with the cry of a prophet—
“Fly, for the Saracens are at my heels!”
It was but two days since Blanche’s men had marched from Agravale, glad to return home through the Seven Streams after their campaigning in the south. The Duchess had tarried one day more, leaving Tristan and Rosamunde to guard the rear as they marched north towards the fords of the Lorient. At Agravale she had received an embassage from the King stating that he was coming south with his barons to restore peace to the Southern Marches. He besought her to meet him at a certain border town that they might discuss the state of the Seven Streams. And since Blanche had no great belief in the King’s honour, nor in the sincerity of his faith, she had determined to meet him at the head of her men, the most powerful plea for peace and justice.
It was evening when the news came to Tristan as he was preparing to evacuate Agravale on the morrow and follow Blanche towards the north. He had but two hundred men left in the city, mostly Samson’s veterans from the Seven Streams. The country folk crowded round him as he came out upon the steps of Lilias’s palace, and besought him not to desert them in their extremity, and to leave their farms and hamlets at the mercy of the Saracens. Tristan pointed out to the chief pleader the smallness of his company, reminded them that they had little cause to claim protection at his hands. But when some of the rough men wept, and besought him the more to save their homes and families from the sword, pointing out that St. Isidore’s Gate might be held by a hundred resol
ute men, he told them he would consider the matter, and give them an answer before dawn.
That night Tristan went alone into Lilias’s garden and paced to and fro through the tangled grass. He was tempted greatly to abandon the south, for he had fought his fill since he had sailed from Purple Isle and landed in the heart of the Seven Streams. He had met grief and conquered it, and found love at last after many days. He was as a man who had grown weary of the chaos of war and hungered for God’s peace, and the clear calm of a woman’s love.
It was about Rosamunde’s face that Tristan’s passions played as he walked in Lilias’s garden under the moon. Should he gamble once more with fate, stake that which he had won with his own good sword, when the future stretched clear as a summer dawn?
Had not the lords of the Southern Marches harried the province of the Seven Streams and carried death and despair into a thousand homes? What claims had these people upon his pity? Could it be that God had decreed their destruction?
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