The fierce tune in the man’s brain had grown more strident in the winter weather. “Columbe and vengeance,” cried a voice, grim and relentless, deep and unceasing. He lived, prayed, dreamt for revenge. Strong and terrible in the fanaticism of his strength, he galloped like a madman over hill and dale. Nothing was too hard for him, nothing impossible. His sword played like lightning through the wilds, for battle and action seemed to ease his soul. He was a man whose heart was filled with fire, before whose eyes swept a mist of blood. Night and noon, Columbe his dead sister seemed to stand and gaze upon his face, and ever he would fancy that he heard her voice amid the rain pelt and the howling wind.
Samson had marched out to drive the scattered garrisons Jocelyn had left from the strong places of the Seven Streams. Tristan was Samson’s Talus, his man of iron with the iron flail. Taking Tor’s Tower as their fountain-head, they had pushed their forays south and east, smiting sudden blows out of the dark. It was a war of outposts, of scattered sieges, of ambushes in the woods. Honour fell to the swift and the desperate; strength and subtlety went hand in hand.
In such a war as this Tristan grew terrible, a man without pity, one who never tired. Samson had given him two hundred spears, and many of Blanche’s best knights were content to serve him. The man with the red shield and the sable pennon became the scourge and terror of Jocelyn’s men. Tristan struck mightily and with furious swiftness. One night he fell upon Sanguelac, a strong place towards the border, scaled the wall alone, for the ladder broke behind him. He sprang down into the court, slew with his axe six men who held the gate, let his own knights in. The place expiated Ronan’s town with death and fire.
The following night he fell upon Merdin, a hill tower some seven leagues away. Though an outpost from Sanguelac, its garrison knew nothing of their fellows’ fate. They were drinking and dicing when Tristan’s men broke in. Such deeds as these spread terror and panic through the breadth of the land, for Tristan came like a storm-wind through the wilds or like an eagle out of the blue.
As for Blanche the Duchess, proud lady that she was, her eyes kindled at the noise of Tristan’s deeds. Often she rode with him on raid and foray, content to share the grim chaos of such a war. Was he not a man after her own heart, knighted by the stroke of her own sword? Her face would flush when she heard the sound of Tristan’s trumpet over the moors.
Her men whispered together over their camp fires; they loved their Duchess, were fierce and jealous for her honour. Yet there was not a man in their iron ranks who loved not Tristan and swore by his sword. He was a soldiers’ man, fearless and hardy, one who could sleep in mud and scale a tower. “Sanguelac,” “Merdin,” these were his watchwords. The black eagle should lead them towards the south.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The night before the southern troops marched for the north, Agravale gave herself up to riot and revelry. Though it was winter, the days were warm, the townsfolk held a carnival in the gardens of St. Pelinore. The houses were decked with rich cloths and banners, the churches with boughs of cypress and yew and garlands of purple amaranth. Companies of monks passed through the streets with crosses and reliquaries, chanting under the stars.
Such was the prologue in Agravale to the storm-cry of war over the Seven Streams. There was a veneer of sanctity over the venture, a professed piety more sonorous than real. Though the priests paraded the crowded streets, held crosses and relics to the lips of the people, the taverns teemed, as did the houses of infamy. The southern folk were prepared to make war in velvet, and prayed more for plunder than the good of the Church.
The dawn of that winter day came crisp and clear, with a sky like crystal, hills and woods sharply carved against the cloudless blue. The clangour of trumpets woke the town, with its vanes and casements mimicking the dawn. Jocelyn had ordered his Bishop’s chair to be set on a mound in the meadows without the western gate. Soon after sunrise he rose and celebrated Mass in the cathedral church of St. Pelinore. Thence from the crowded aisles, with their mail-clad worshippers, he passed in state to his throne in the meadows, a great following of priests chanting at his heels. All Agravale had hurried to the walls and meadows to watch the host march out for the north.