CHAPTER XXXIV
While Rosamunde was held a prisoner in the madhouse in the mere, Tristan and the Duchess had turned back from the west and marched again on Marvail and the fords of the Lorient. Having dealt with Jocelyn and dispersed his people, they were ready to revenge them for Samson’s death, and for the ruin wrought in the Seven Streams. They had sworn together, they and their nobles, to humble Agravale and to end the crusades that the priests had preached in that same city.
At Marvail Tristan had set craftsmen at work upon two coffins of seasoned wood. The larger was framed for Jocelyn the Bishop; Tristan had him laid alive therein, and the lid fastened over him with thongs of leather. Two holes were left in the lid over Jocelyn’s face, so that he might breathe and take his food. Imprisoned thus, he was carried on a litter pole on the march, while beside him was borne the empty coffin covered with the Sacred Banner blessed by the Pope.
Late that winter Tristan and the Duchess crossed the Lorient and encamped near to Samson’s grave. They set their men to raise a great mound over the place, and having cut down the tree on which Samson had been crucified, they fashioned from it a great cross. This they set on the summit of the mound as a trophy to him who had conquered in death.
Between the fords of the Lorient and the city of Agravale lay some twenty leagues of forest land, more dark and rugged than the province of the Seven Streams. Here and there were villages hid in the deep gloom of the woods. A few abbeys and religious houses slept grey and solemn in the wilderness, their fish ponds glimmering amid the green. Many strange beasts lurked within its shadows and many barbarous folk but half claimed by the Church. From the fords of the Lorient even to the cliffs of Agravale a squirrel might have journeyed from tree to tree.
Into this wild region Benedict of the Mountains had plunged with the few hundred men who had escaped from the slaughter in the west. Hither also had gathered the remnant of those who had fled from Marvail after Count Reynaud’s death. They had gathered their scattered companies on the way to Agravale, and were arming the rude peasantry to march once more on the Seven Streams.
By Samson’s grave Tristan and the Duchess took counsel together with all the nobles of the north. Samson’s mantle had descended on Tristan, and though he had not the Heretic’s tongue, he had sufficient ardour to serve the cause. Even the older men suffered his youth, for he had given proof of his great strength, and was honest enough to be advised when in need.
“To Agravale,” he said, “that, sirs, I take it, is our common cry. Since we have Jocelyn in our hands, we cannot leave our work half done.”
“Destroy the lair,” quoth Lothaire of the Isles, “and the bear will rear no more cubs within. We men of the north are ready to follow.”
So said they all about the board, for the Duchess had given Tristan her signet ring as a token that he had her will in the war. Some spoke of marching straight for the south, braving the forest and all its perils. Others were for bearing towards the sea, where they might reach Agravale by the banks of the Gloire. But Tristan had nurtured more in his heart than a mere march through the forest with skirmishes by the way if Benedict of the Mountains stood to oppose them. Rosamunde, he knew, was in the madhouse in the mere, and therefore safe for him, moated from the woods. The winter had been dry, with but little rain, and for days a strong wind had blown from the north-west, and the dead wood and leaves were brittle as tinder. It was Tristan’s plan to fire the forest with a line of beacons carried south.
The nobles of the north were well content with some such strategy as this. They parted their host into three great companies, Lothaire taking one, Sir Didcart of the Hills another, Tristan and the Duchess keeping the third. After swearing troth over Samson’s grave, they marched south from the fords of the Lorient, prepared to follow Tristan’s plan.
As though to humour them, the wind freshened still further, and veered towards the north. Grey clouds raced in the sky overhead, and the tall trees moaned and swayed on the hills. Tristan saw that the hour had come. All day his men had laboured on the rim of the forest, hewing down trees, gathering brushwood and dead branches. They had built twelve great pyres each more than two furlongs apart, where the flames could strike at once into the forest. Lothaire and Sir Didcart were marching south, stacking up beacons as they went, ready for the signal from the north.
On the third night after the taking of the oath over Samson’s grave Tristan gave the word for the firing of the forest. He was posted with Blanche on the crest of a hill where they could watch the lighting of the beacons. The wind moaned over the trees, and a myriad black spires waved in the wind like sharp billows on a heavy sea. Clouds were scudding fast in the heavens, with a new moon peeping through and through.
Red streaks played about the outermost thickets where men with torches ran to and fro. Soon the red streaks lengthened into yellow spears while smoke billowed southwards with the wind. The flames smote upwards and licked at the trees, curling round trunk and waving top, spreading fans of flame from a thousand boughs. The pyres grew into pyramids of fire, great golden obelisks blazing to the sky. From the fords of the Lorient the message sped, leaping leagues into the night. Lothaire’s men saw the beacons gleam, and kindling their torches, linked the chain up.
Tristan and Blanche kept watch upon the hill, their knights round them in silent awe. The tall trees were wrapped in shrouds of flame, and the smoke of their burning hung like a thunder-cloud overhead. Onwards with the wind the fire rolled, bringing the giants of the forest to earth, till glowing rivers streamed towards the south to meet and merge into a sea of fire. It was as some vast second chaos devouring the world, a burning judgment hurled down from heaven.
Tristan stood leaning on his sword with the joy of a fanatic on his face.
“See how the south burns!” he cried, stretching out his hand. “Martyrs and innocents, behold your vengeance!”
A sudden thought seized him as he watched the spreading fire. Calling to the men who were gathered round him, he pealed his deep voice into their ears, for the cry of the forest was as the roar of the sea. Figures struggled forward out of the gloom, bearing the coffin that held Jocelyn of Agravale. The bands were unfastened and the priest lifted out, for he could scarcely use his cramped limbs. Cowering before Tristan, he blinked at the scene as though called from the grave to face his doom. The forest lay a great sea of fire, and southwards the flames ravaged the night, till the distant hills awoke and grew grey.
Tristan stood beside the priest and pointed to the forest with his sword.
“Behold your bishopric,” he said. “Here we may show ye the likeness of hell.”