CHAPTER XLII
Like a proud star, Rosamunde of Joyous Vale had set in the far west, over the wilds and the deep woods that stretched towards the sea. Lilias’s forsaken barge had borne her away down the silver curves of the mighty Gloire, with Telamon at the helm and ten men toiling at the oars. From a tower on the walls of Agravale Tristan had watched the gilded poop disappear into the gloom of the woods. In anger Rosamunde had parted from him, because he had set his duty before her love and had dared to deny her the tyranny of tears. Tristan wondered, as he watched from the tower, whether he would behold her face again.
“To horse, to horse!”
Such was the trumpet’s cry that noon. Tristan and his men tightened up the girths, rode out from Agravale under the sun at its zenith, wound down the steep road towards the river, crossed the stone bridge, and held for the south. Their horses’ hoofs rang on the old Roman road that stretched over the meadows like a great beam. They had taken certain of the peasant folk with them as guides, men who knew all the mountain passes and the narrow defiles of St. Isidore’s Gate.
So the sun climbed, descended, and set in the west, beating on the distant peaks with vapours of crimson and gold. Knight Tristan rode at the head of his men, his eyes fixed on the far mountains, the purple slopes that rose from the plain, the icy glimmer of the snow-white heights. He rode as a man who considered death, to whom the unknown stretched out like an unsailed sea. There was great loneliness upon Tristan’s soul that evening, for all the love seemed to have left his life, and all his battlings to have ended in bitterness. In the hour of trial Rosamunde had failed him, had hid her face from him behind the mask of pride. Nor cared he greatly what might befall from that hour, since death would honour him when hope stood apart.
Night came with a round moon swimming in a sky of dusky azure studded with the faces of many stars. Tristan halted his men to rest them and their horses on the march, for though the hours were precious, he would not deny them the sleep that they needed. They off-saddled at a little shrine by the roadside, a shrine dedicated to St. Geneviève by some good matron dead and gone. Roses clambered about the walls and slim cypresses streaked the misty grass where a little pool caught the light of the moon. A grove of poplars stood near in a broad meadow, the night breeze playing in their mighty tops.
As for Tristan, he had no hope of sleep, for there were thoughts moving in his brain, tramping like restless sentinels to and fro. The night seemed full of ghostly voices, crying to him out of the dark. He heard his mother’s voice, even as he had heard it as a little child when his hands clung to the folds of her gown. Also he listened to Columbe weeping, as she had wept once in Purple Isle long ago. Yet Rosamunde’s clear tones topped them all. He remembered the songs he had heard her sing in distant Joyous Vale to the women and children of Ronan’s town. For him, perhaps, she would sing no more. Tristan found himself wondering in his heart whether she would weep if he died in the mountains. Perhaps her anger would melt away when she learnt that she had lost his love for ever.
Tristan passed the night alone under the stars, pacing to and fro on the white road, with the wind playing in the poplar tops. Often he stood leaning upon his spear, gazing towards the mountains whose snowy peaks gleamed like white marble in the distant south. Yonder in the yawning passes and under the huge and savage crags he would meet Serjabil and his men, rear up his shield against their lances. There was much of the soldier’s joy in the thought that his sword would be measured against the scimitar.
Soon the dawn came, a golden haze rising in the east. The poplars caught the streaming light; in the meadows silvery mists smoked up; the far woods glistened, seemed to tongue forth flame.
From the gloom of the north a faint sound shivered on the wind. Tristan heard it and stood erect, peering along the empty road that ran so straight under the tall trees. The sound seemed to grow with the rising dawn, to swell into the thunder of many hoofs, the clash and clangour of hurrying steel. Vague lightnings came flashing from the gloom, shield and helmet mimicking the east. Huge mist-wrapped figures loomed out of the north, mailed phantoms pressing through the vapoury dawn along the white road betwixt the trees. A trumpet sounded beside the shrine. Tristan’s men came crowding up through the long grass amid the burning cypresses.
A trumpet’s scream answered Tristan’s challenge. Along the road rolled a hundred spears behind Blanche the Duchess on her great white horse, the Banner of the Bleeding Heart blowing above. They came to a halt before the shrine amid an eddying cloud of dust. Tristan and his men ran to meet the Duchess, cheering her mightily with great good will.
Blanche, big-hearted woman that she was, had straightway turned when Percival had ridden in with Tristan’s message concerning the Saracens. She had sent a rider to overtake Lothaire, bidding him march south again with all his men. Not waiting for him to join her, she had used whip and spur in her gallant haste to bring Tristan succour. Only her bodyguard, some hundred spears, had followed her past Agravale towards the mountains.
Blanche climbed down from her jaded horse and met Tristan face to face on the dusty road. The soldiers on either side stood back out of rough respect to these two great ones whose hands were clasped in the cause of the Cross. Though Blanche was weary with hard riding, her splendid spirit seemed unquenched, her courage fresh as the broadening dawn. Her eyes were very bright as they gazed on Tristan’s: she smiled at him dearly, held out her hands.
“Old friend,” she said, “we meet again.”
Tristan went down on one knee in the road and kissed the hands that were stretched towards him. Was she not a woman to serve and honour, a woman who could strengthen a soldier’s heart and give him help in the hour of need? She had seen no madness in this ride of his, but rather the desire of an heroic heart to bear the brunt against heavy odds.
“Madame,” he said to her, still kneeling in the dust, “Heaven wills it, it seems, that Tristan le Sauvage should be your debtor.”
She drew her hands away from his, as though half unwilling to see him kneel to her.
“Rise up, Tristan,” she said; “it is my good fortune that gives me the privilege. Where is Rosamunde? Will you not lead me to her?”
As for Tristan, when he heard her speak Rosamunde’s name he went both red and white under his tanned skin. He was jealous for Rosamunde, yet half ashamed at having to justify her before the Duchess. He would not have confessed, even under torture, that Rosamunde had failed him in her love.
“Madame,” he said, rising up from his knees and squaring his great shoulders against the truth, “Rosamunde have I sent to Holy Guard, that she might be safe there against all mischance.”
Blanche had been watching Tristan’s face, the shifting thought clouds that played over his eyes, nor had his answer wholly deceived her.
“How?” she said. “Rosamunde at Holy Guard? Was it her will that you should go alone to this great venture, whence none may return?”
Tristan was silent for one brief moment. Yet Blanche had discovered much of the truth in that short silence that held him mute.
“I planned for the best,” he made haste to answer her. “Who knows what may happen to us in the mountains? Should I drag love into the van of battle, and cast such a pearl into Serjabil’s treasury? Nay, Madame Blanche, give me but fifty of your men, and I will hold the passes till Lothaire comes south.”
On Blanche’s face there was a mysterious light, as though she rejoiced over some heaven-sent boon. Her dark eyes shone under her silvery hair; her voice rang deep as she gave Tristan her answer.
“Not fifty, but a hundred shall you have,” she said, “and I, Blanche, will stand at your side.”
Tristan’s eyes met hers in one long look.
“Nay,” he said, “you are too noble a soul to be risked against Serjabil’s sword.”
“I am a woman,” she answered him very simply, “a woman who loves to stand by those who do not flinch when the wind blows keen. Am I better than my men, who give their blood for Christ and the Cross? No, I trow not. Who fears death when those most dear are on the brink of the grave?”
Tristan answered her not a word, for he was glad at heart of her great courage. He could have blessed God for such a woman. Did not a deep voice cry within him, “If only Rosamunde had spoken thus!”