“Ah, what is ‘fair’? The time tells the eyes that such and such is beauty. Then comes another time with its reversal! But all the time, if the soul is ‘fair’? The princess is ‘fair’ to me.”
Beauvoisin looked at him steadily. “I see,” he said “that we have a like fate—God He knoweth all, and what the great cup of life holds, holds, holds!... Well, that princess has courage and is wise! I had heard as much of her, and I see that it is so. In her first womanhood the Abbess Madeleine was a long while at the court of Roche-de-Frêne. Your princess is her friend.” He paced the room, then, coming to the fire, bent over the flame.
“I see, my lord count,” said Garin, “devotion and generousness!”
Beauvoisin was silent, warming himself at the flame. Garin of the Golden Island, standing at the window, looked toward Roche-de-Frêne. His mind’s eye saw assault and repulse and again assault, the push against walls and gates, the men upon the walls, at the gates, the engines of war, the reeking fury of fight. The keener ear heard the war-cries, the clangour and the shouting, and underneath, the groan. He saw the banner that attacked, and above the castle, above Red Tower and Lion Tower, the banner that defended. He turned toward the room again.
The count spoke, “Jaufre de Montmaure! I have no love for Count Jaufre, nor friendship with him. I was of those who, an they could, would have kept Richard from this huge support he has given. My party would still see it withdrawn.—But Richard treads a road of his own.... Were Jaufre Richard, your princess, being here, would be in the lion’s den! But just her coming—the first outbursting of his anger over—will put her person safe with Richard.”
“That has been felt—knowing by old rumour certain qualities in him.”
“It was truly felt. But as to the gain for which all was risked!—Jaufre has been to him an evil companion, but a companion. But,” said the Count of Beauvoisin, “even at my proper danger, I will get for her who, by Saint Michael! with courage has come here, the meeting she asks!”
The castle of Angoulême was not so huge and strong a place as the castle of Roche-de-Frêne, but still was it great and strong enough. The high of rank among its usual population remained within its walls, but the lesser sort were crowded out and flowed into the town, so making room for Duke Richard’s great train. Martialness was the tone where he went, with traceable threads of song, threads of religiousness. Colours had violence, and yet with suddenness and for short whiles might soften to tenderness. There was brazen clangour, rattle as of armour, dominance of trumpets, yet flute notes might come in the interstices, and lute and harp had their recognized times. And all and whatever was in presence showed with him intense and glowing. Idea clothed itself promptly in emotion, emotion ran hotfoot into action, but none of the three were film-like, momentary. Impetuous, they owned a solidity. He could do, he had done, many an evil thing, but there was room for a sense of realms that were not evil.
It was afternoon, and the red sun reddened the castle hall. There had been planned some manner of indoor festivity, pageantry. The world of chivalry, men and women, gathered in Angoulême about Richard Lion-Heart, was there to see and be seen. But after the first half-hour Richard rose and went away. His immediate court was used to that, too. His mood had countered the agreed-upon mood for the hour: naught was to do but to watch him depart. Music that was playing played more loudly; a miracle-story in pantomime was urged to more passionate action; as best might be, the chasm was covered. “It is the Duke’s way—applaud the entertainers or the thing will drag!”
The duke went away to a great room in another part of the castle. With him he drew two or three of his intimates; in the room itself attended the Count of Beauvoisin and several knights of fame and worthiness. Among these stood that newcomer to Angoulême, the Knight of the Wood. The room was richly furnished, lit by the red light of the sun streaming through three deep windows. A door in the opposite wall gave into a smaller room.