All the gleaming and coloured particles slightly changed place, the bowstring tension grew higher. Here was now Guiraut of the Vale, the accompanying knights behind him, standing to hear what answer he should take to the Count of Montmaure. The answer given him to take was brief, clothed in courtesy, and without a hint in its voice or eye of the possibility of untoward consequences. Roche-de-Frêne thanked Montmaure for the honour meant, but the Princess Audiart was resolved not to wed.
Guiraut of the Vale, magnificent in dress and air, heard, and towered a moment in silence, then flung out his hands, took a tone, harsh and imperious. “You give me, Prince of Roche-de-Frêne, an ill answer with which to return to the great count, my master! You set a bale-fire and a threat upon the one road of peace between your land and Montmaure! And for that my master was foretold by a sorceress that so would you answer him, I am here not unprovided with an answer to your answer!” With that he made a stride forward and flung down a glove upon the dais, at Gaucelm’s feet. “Gaucelm the Fortunate, Montmaure will war upon you until he and his son shall sit where now you and your daughter are seated! Montmaure will war upon you until men know you as Gaucelm the Unhappy! Montmaure will war upon you until the Princess Audiart shall kneel for mercy to Count Jaufre—”
The hall shouted with anger. The ranks of knights slanted toward the envoy. Gaucelm’s voice at last brought quiet. “The man is a herald and sacred!—My lord Stephen the Marshal, take up the Count of Montmaure’s glove!”
So began the war between Roche-de-Frêne and Montmaure.
[CHAPTER XIII]
THE VENETIAN
That year Saladin was victor in Syria and the Kingdom of Jerusalem fell. Many a baron, knight, and footman was slain that year in the land over the sea! Those who could escape left that place of burning heat and Paynim victory. Another crusade they might go, but here and now was downfall! A part survived and reached their homes, and a part perished at sea, or in shipwreck on strange shores.
Sir Eudes de Panemonde, an old man now and bent, came home to his castle and fief. With him came his son, Sir Aimar, a beautiful and brave knight, all bronzed with the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. With them came a third knight, bronzed too by the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. He had been Garin de Castel-Noir, and then Garin Rogier, and now, for five years, Sir Garin of the Golden Island,—Garin de l’lsle d’Or,—known in the land over the sea for exploits of an extreme, an imaginative daring, and also for the songs he made and sang in Frank and English fortress halls. He was knight and famed knight, and three emirs’ ransoms stood between him and the chill of poverty. Two esquires served him. He had horses,—better could not be bought in Syria! He had brought off in safety men-at-arms in his pay. He was known for wearing over his mail a surcoat of deep blue, and on the breast embroidered a bird with outstretched wings. He was all bronzed and rightly lean of face and frame, strongly-knit, adventurous, courteous, could be gay and could be melancholy, showed not his entire depth, but let the inner fountain, darkly pure, still send up jets and hues of being. He and Sir Aimar were brothers-in-arms, were Damon and Pythias. He was, also, true poet. Many a song had he made since that first song, made where he lay upon a boundary stone, by the stream that flowed past Castel-Noir and on to Our Lady in Egypt. And always he sang of one whom he named the Fair Goal. That name was known in Crusaders’ cities, in tents that were pitched upon desert sands. He himself was known and welcomed. Comrade-Frank or Englishman or German cried with pleasure, “Here comes the singer!”—or “the lover!” as might be.