“They creep because they are heavily laden,” said the princess. “Let us thank our Lady Fortune that they creep!”
The wagons gave way to a flock of sheep, bleating and jostling each the other. Followed swine with their herd, goats, asses bearing panniers from which fowls looked unhappily forth, carts with bags of meal, a wide miscellany of matters most useful to a town that Montmaure proposed to besiege—with Aquitaine behind him! The princess noted all. The stream flowed by her orders, and her mind appraised the store that was adding itself this morning to the store already gathered in town and castle. She turned her horse a little and gazed afar over the green and tawny country.
Out of the sheen of the day came from another direction a straggling crowd. Nearer at hand it resolved itself into a peasant horde—a few men neither strong nor weak, but more very aged men, or sick or crippled, many women from young to old, many children. They also had carts, four or five, heaped with strange bits of clothing and household gear. Lying upon these were helpless folk—an old, palsied man, a woman and her day-old babe. They came on with a kind of deep, plaintive murmur, like a wood in a winter blast.
“Ah, Jesu!” said the princess. “More driven folk!”
As they came near she pushed her horse toward them, bent from her saddle, questioned them. They had come from a region where Montmaure was harrying—they had a tale to tell of an attack in the night and a burned village. Unlike many others, these had had time to flee. When they found themselves upon the road, they had said that they would go to Roche-de-Frêne and tell the princess, the prince being dead.
“Aye, aye!” said the princess. “Poor folk—poor orphans!”
She gave them cheering words, then sat as in a dream and watched them faring on across the bridge and up the climbing road to the town gate.
There spoke to her one of her captains, a grey, redoubtable fighter. “My lady, you are not wise to let them enter! In the old siege your great-grandfather let not in one useless mouth!”
“Aye!” said the princess. “When I was little I heard stories from my nurse of that siege. A great number died without the walls. Men, women, and children died, kneeling and stretching their arms to the shut gates!—That was my great-grandfather. But I will not have my harried folk wailing, kneeling to deaf stone!—Now let us ride to see these barriers.”
The day was at the crest of light and heat when with her following she recrossed the bridge, rode up the slope of summer hill, and in at the gate of the town called the river-gate. Everywhere was a movement of people, a buzzing sound of work. The walls of Roche-de-Frêne were strong—but nothing is so strong that it cannot be strengthened! Likewise there were many devices, modern to the age or of an advanced efficiency. The princess had sent for a master-engineer, drawing him with rich gifts to Roche-de-Frêne. The town hummed like a giant hive, forewarned of the strong invader. Prince Gaucelm lay in the crypt under the cathedral. At night the horizon, north and west, burned red to show the steps of Montmaure. Over there, too, was Stephen the Marshal with a host—though with never so great a host as had Montmaure whom Aquitaine aided. In the high white light and dry heat Roche-de-Frêne, town and castle, toiled busily. The castle looked to the town, the town looked to the castle. In the town, by the walls, were gathered master-workman and apprentice, not labouring to-day at dyeing and weaving and saddlery, at building higher the church-tower; labouring to-day at thickest shield-making; studying to keep out sack and fire, death and pillage, rape and ruin, studying to keep out Montmaure.