XLIII
Under the starry pall of night, the last cry of the clarion of tragedysounded over wood and meadow. Gilderoy, proud city of the south, hadclosed her gates against the royal host, wise at the eleventh hour as tothe measure of the King's mercy. The wreckage from the battle in thevalley had washed on Tamar's bosom past the walls, corpses jostling eachother in the stream of death. Vultures had hovered in the azure sky.There was no doom for Gilderoy save the doom of the sword.
The moon rose red amid a whorl of dusky clouds, veiled as with scarletfor the last orgies of war. Gilderoy had been carried by assault.Morolt's barbarians were pouring through the streets; the gates yawnedtowards the night; bells boomed and clashed. The townsfolk werescurrying like rats for the great square where the remnant of thegarrison had barricaded the entries, gathering for a death-struggleunder the umbrage of the cathedral towers.
Richard the King had ridden into Gilderoy by the northern gate with SirSimon of Imbrecour and a strong guard of knights and men-at-arms.Fulviac's head danced on a spear beside the Golden Banner of Lauretia.The citadel had opened its gates to Sire Julian of Layonne. In thesquare before the ruined abbey of the Benedictines the King and hisnobles gathered to await the judgment of the hour.
A great bell boomed through the night, a deep panting sound in the warmgloom. Torrents of steel clashed through the narrow streets, gleamingunder the torch flare, bubbling towards the last rampart of revolt.From the cathedral square arose a wild, whimpering outcry, the wailingof women mingling with the hoarse clamour of the last assault.
Word was brought to the King by one of Morolt's esquires, that thetownsfolk were holding the great square behind their barricades, andpouring a hot fire from the houses upon his troops. Morolt desired theKing's ring and his commands before taking to the resource of the sword.Richard of the Iron Hand was in no mood for mercy. His decree wentforth from before the gate of the ruined abbey.
"Consider no church as a sanctuary. Fire the houses about the square.Gilderoy shall burn."
The city's doom was sealed by those iron words. The torch took up thehandiwork of the sword. A gradual glow began to rise above thehouse-tops; smoke billowed up, black and voluminous, dusted with amyriad ruddy stars. Flames rose from casement and from gable, fromchimney, spirelet, roof, and tower. The houses were faced with wood,dry as tinder, crisp for the torch as a summer-bleached prairie. Theflames ran like a red flood from roof to roof, with a roar as from hugereptiles battling in a burning pit. The great square, with theglittering pinnacles of its cathedral, was girded in with fire andsword.
Men were stabbing and hewing upon the barricades where Morolt'sfeudatories had stormed up from the gloom of the streets. Beneath thelight of the burning houses, swords were tossed, the dead forgotten andtrodden under foot. It was not long before the barriers were carried byassault and the avengers of Belle Foret poured pitiless into the greatsquare.
The citizens of Gilderoy had packed their women and children into thesanctuary of the cathedral choir. They were penned there amid thegorgeous gildings of the place, a shivering flock swarming in thefrescoed chapels, huddled beneath the painted figures of the saints.The glow of the burning city beat in through the jewelled glass,building the huge aisles in a glittering cavern windowed with livinggems. Darkness and dawn struggled and fought under the thunderingvaults. From without came the wild babel, the hoarse death-moan of apeople.
In the great square the fight went on, a ruthless melee, strong andterrible. Gilderoy had slaughtered her noblesse. She made expiation forthe deed that night with the heart's blood of her children. Vengeanceand despair grappled and swayed in that great pit of death. The blazingstreets walled in a red inferno, where passions ran like Satanic wine.Gilderoy, proud city of the south, quivered and expired beneath the irongauntlet of the King.
Modred of Gambrevault moved through the press with Morolt of the Northfighting at his side. They had a common quest that night, a commonwatchword, chastening the vengeance of their men.
"Seek the Saint. Save Yeoland of Gambrevault."
It was as a hoarse shout, feeble and futile amid the bluster of a storm.What hope was there for this pale-faced Madonna amid the burning wreckof Gilderoy? She was as a lily in a flaming forest. Modred sought forher with voice and sword, thinking of Flavian and the vow upon thecliff. Though the city lightened, black Modred's heart was steeped ingloom. Death and despair seemed armed against his hope.
On the eastern quarter a little court stood back from the great square.A fountain played in the centre, the water-jet, thrown from a mermaid'sbosom, sparkling like a plume of gems. The walls of the court werestreaked with flame, its casements tawny with yellow light. The breathof the place was as the breath of a furnace; a quaking crowd filled it,driven to bay by the swords shining in the square.
Modred was a tall man, a pine standing amid hollies. Staring into themurk of the court wreathed round with a garland of fire, he saw, abovethe heads of the crowd, a woman standing on the steps of the fountain,leaning against the brim of the basin. Her hair blew loose from underher open bassinet; her white face like a flower was turned mutely to thenight. A cuirass glimmered under her cloud of hair. Modred, when hesaw her, sent up a shout like that of a wrecked mariner sighting a sailover tumbling waves. He tossed his sword, charged forward into thecourt, began to buffet his way towards the figure by the fountain.
A knot of soldiery, taking his shout as a rallying cry, stormed afterhim into the court. There was a great crush in the entry, men tumblingin, and using their swords as poniards. The townsfolk were scatteredlike blown leaves towards the burning houses. In the hot turmoil of themoment the girl was swept from the fountain steps, and carried by astruggling bunch of figures towards a corner of the court. Modred lostsight of her for the moment, as he ploughed forward through the press.
Flames were rushing from casement and from roof; the breath of the placewas as the breath of a burning desert. The Gilderoy rebels pent in thecourt were being put to the sword. Through the swirl of the struggleYeoland's bassinet shone out again. Modred saw her standing alone,shading her face with her hands like some wild, desperate thing, knowingnot whither to escape. He pushed on, calling her by name. Before hecould reach her the gabled front of a house undermined by the firelurched forward, tottered, and came down with a roar.
A blazing brand struck Modred on the helmet. He staggered, beheld ashower of sparks, felt a scorching wind upon his face. The stones werelittered with crackling woodwork, glowing timber, reeking tiles. He wasstunned for a moment as by the blow of a mace. Flames were leapingheavenwards from the houses, wiping out the mild faces of the stars withtheir ruthless hands.
With a great cry Modred had started forward like a charging bull. Hedragged aside the smouldering wreckage of gable and roof, tore therafters aside, nor heeded the heat, for his harness helped him. Hisgreat body quivered as he drew the girl out and lifted her from thestones. Her green kirtle was alight, and with the strong instinct ofthe moment he ran with her to the fountain and plunged her bodily in thebroad basin.
Panting, he bore her across the great square in his arms. Yeoland wasmaking a little moaning whimper, but for all else lay quiet as ahalf-dead bird. Modred dared not look into her face; the scent of herscorched hair beat up into his nostrils. He ground his teeth and cursedFate as he ran. Was it for this that they had bulwarked Gambrevault?
Love Among the Ruins Page 43