Thunder crashed. Beneath its long reverberations sounded a wailing of trumpets. This died, and there arose a savage shouting, noise of Montmaure’s triumph. It lightened and thundered again. Other and many trumpets sounded, not at hand but somewhat distantly, not mournfully, but with voices high and resolved and jubilant. Garin thought that they came from the castle, then that they were blowing in the streets of the town, then that they sounded without the walls, from the downward slope of the great road. Rose came into the grey of the world, salt into its flatness.
“Blessed Mother of God!” cried Aimar. “See yonder, rescue streaming from the gates—”
Forth from Roche-de-Frêne poured the castle garrison, poured the burghers. They came, each man armed as he would run, at the alarum bell, to the walls. Knight and sergeant rode; the many hasted afoot. All the old warriors and the young warriors, whose post of duty had been within the place, sprang forth, and followed them the host of the townsmen, at their head Thibaut Canteleu. But at the head of all, chivalry, foot-soldiers and townsmen, rode the Princess of Roche-de-Frêne. Down came the torrent, in the light of the storm, down the hill of Roche-de-Frêne, over the bridge, then widened itself and came impetuous, with a kind of singing will, freshness, and power upon the plain, to the battle that the one side had thought won and the other lost.
All lethargy passed from Garin’s senses. He beheld the rallying of the host, beheld Stephen the Marshal, sore wounded but not to death, lifted and borne to the great tower, beheld the princess, wearing mail like a man, a helmet upon her head, in her hand a sword. She rode a grey destrier, and where her banner came, came courage, hope, and victory. The battle turned. Montmaure was thrust back upon his tents. When the tempest broke, with a great rain and whistling wind, with lightning that blinded and pealing thunder, when the twilight came down and the battle rested, it was Montmaure that had lost the day.
[CHAPTER XVII]
OUR LADY OF ROCHE-DE-FRÊNE
Stephen the Marshal lay in a fair chamber in the castle of Roche-de-Frêne, very grievously hurt and fevered with his hurt. A physician attended him, and his squires watched, and an old skilled woman, old nurse of the Princess Audiart, sat beside his bed. Sometimes Alazais, with the Lady Guida, came to the room, stood and murmured pitiful words. Through the windows, deep set in the thick wall, entered, through the long day, other sound, not pitiful. At times it came as well in the long night. Montmaure might assault three, four times during the day and, for that he would wear out the defenders, strike again at midnight or ere the cock crew.
Montmaure had so many fighting men that half might rest through the day or sleep at night while their fellows wore down Roche-de-Frêne. Count Jaufre had ridden westward and northward,—after the day of the wounding of Stephen,—and coming to Autafort where was Duke Richard, had procured, after a night of talk and song, dawn mass, and a headlong, sunrise gallop between the hills, the gift of other thousands of men wherewith to pay the cost of the jewel. Normans, Angevins, men of Poitou and Gascony, Englishmen, soldiers of fortune, and Free Companions—they followed Jaufre de Montmaure to Roche-de-Frêne and swelled the siege. They were promised great booty, plenary license when the town was sacked, a full meal for the lusts of the flesh.