“Let it be on the morrow, then,” she said; “he is in no need of us for a day, I trow.”
She bade Tristan mount and ride at her side, while the long spears bristled over the sandy heath, and the banner of the Bleeding Cross flapped in the wind. Behind them over the dusky slopes came the rough warriors of the north, bronzed, bearded men, big of bone and burly of limb. Their axes hung at their saddle bows, their long shields blinked towards the sea.
The Duchess questioned Tristan as he rode at her side concerning Samson’s power and the state of the Seven Streams. There were many strong places that had been garrisoned by the Bishop’s men, such as Sanguelac and Merdin and Marvail by the fords of the Lorient. Tristan told her all he knew as to Jocelyn’s garrisons and Samson’s fortune. He discovered that the Duchess was well versed in war, that she had a stout heart and a generous instinct. She recalled to him Rosamunde whom he had left in Holy Guard, save that she was older by some fifteen years, and had more strength and sureness of courage.
All that day Tristan rode at her side, under the ken of her fearless eyes. She was not a woman a true man could dissemble with, for she possessed that strange charm that forbade reserve, that natural sincerity that commanded trust. Before many hours had passed Tristan’s tongue was running briskly as for some friend. His strong face and his grim manner pleased the woman, for she was one who hated a perfumed sprig, and could not suffer a honeyed tongue.
Thus, gracious lady that she was, she soon had Tristan at her service. The man told her much of his life, how he had sailed in search of his sister, and fallen in with the heretics of the Seven Streams. He told her also of his sojourn in the south, how he had found his sister’s grave and had sworn vengeance over it against Jocelyn of Agravale. But of Rosamunde of Ronan’s town he said but little, for he would not speak of that which concerned his heart.
They came that night to a lonely tower on the hills, and lodged there until the morning. Blanche had gathered that Tristan was no knight, but a mere soldier of circumstance, whose honest sword was of more worth than an ancient title. Therefore she called him before her that same evening and gave him knighthood at her hands. On the morrow they marched on towards the sea, and saw Tor’s Tower rise on its rocky height.
CHAPTER XXVI
In Agravale there was much blowing of trumpets, much burnishing of arms. The women of the city had drawn forth all their gay stuffs, their gold tissues and fripperies, and much scarlet cloth. The streets teemed with soldiery gathered from all the southern baronies, and there were many knights and nobles in Agravale, the city was full of the clangour of war. The hostels were full to over-flowing; each house was a tavern where the wine ran red.
The dragon of Heresy had lifted its head once more out of the dust, and the Papal spies had come in from the Seven Streams, telling how Samson was gathering men at Tor’s Tower by the sea. The tidings had gone out through the Southern Marches that a second crusade had been ordained by Heaven against these whelps who blasphemed the Church. The Pope had despatched his legates through the duchy, threatening the half-hearted, blessing the zealous. The Great Father had sent a sacred banner to Agravale, consecrated to the cause of the soldiers of God. The Golden Keys of Heaven flew thereon. Jocelyn, who had been ordained Bishop of the Crusade, had set the banner in St. Pelinore’s great church, where the people might gaze on it and bless God and the Pope.
One winter noon Jocelyn walked in the cloisters of the abbey of St. Pelinore, with Christopher the Canon at his side. For an hour they had been stalking to and fro on the sunny side, with the carved heads on the corbels grinning one against another. Jocelyn and the Canon were alone in the cloisters; more than once a deep chuckle had seemed to answer the grinning faces above.