In the castle of Panemonde there was welcome and feasting. The strong kinsman had not proved weak in fidelity, but had held afar from the fief eagle and kite, while at home the Lady of Panemonde, a small, fair, determined woman, had administered with great ability castle, village, and the fields that fed both. Here were Crusaders who, unlike enough to many, had not come home impoverished, or to lands ravaged and debt-ridden. And Sir Eudes’s old sin was now wiped out of the memory of God, and he could sit in the sun and wait death with a peaceful mind. And Sir Aimar was so beautiful and strong a knight that his suzerain, the Count of Toulouse, would be sure to give him opportunity by which he might win fame for Panemonde beyond that which he had brought from across the sea. Garin de l’Isle d’Or, too, looked for service that should win him land and castle.
Toulouse! No sooner had their ship come to port than they learned that Aquitaine warred against Toulouse, Duke Richard claiming the latter through his mother, Duchess Eleanor. But hardly had they taken the road to Panemonde before they heard the news that Richard and Count Raymond had made in some sort peace, due, perhaps, to hold, and perhaps due not to hold. Coming to Panemonde they found that the lady there had furnished Count Raymond the spears that the fief owed, and that, the fighting over, some of these had returned. Some would never return.
They feasted and rejoiced at Panemonde, giving and hearing news. Kindred and friends came about the restored from over the sea. There were feasts in the hall, exercises in the tilting yard, hunting and singing. They carried in procession to the monastery church a vial of water from the Jordan, a hands-breadth of silk from the bliaut of Joseph of Arimathea. They gave holiday to the serfs and remitted a tax. The early summer days went highly and well.
Sir Aimar had a sister, Aigletta, a fair, rose-cheeked, dark-eyed lady. She was fain to hear stories of Saladin from her brother, and she liked to listen to the lute and the deep, rich and sweet voice of Garin of the Golden Island. He sang when she asked it, seated in hall or in garden, or perhaps resting by the little stream without the castle wall, where you looked across the bridge of one arch to the eastward-stretching highway. Oftenest Garin sang other men’s songs, but when she asked it, he sang his own. Aigletta listened with a pensive look. Her brother found her alone one day in the garden, a white rose by her knee, her smooth cheek resting upon her hand. He sat beside her.
“Sister, ladies more than two or three have wished that Sir Garin would sing not so much for them as of them! And still he sings only of the Fair Goal.”
“Who is she?” asked Aigletta.
“Who knows? He knows not himself. But she is as a hedge of white roses to keep him from other loves. So I would not have you, sister, scorch the finger-tip of your heart!”
“I? Not I!” said Aigletta. “I dip my finger-tips in cool, running water!—But, truly, to sing for years of a lady whom he knows not by sight—!”
“A poet can do even that,” said Aimar. “And it is not true that he hath never seen her. He saw her once, where she rested at an abbey, though I am not sure that he saw her face. But now for years he hath made her famous—loving her, or loving the love of her.”