Cautious even in victory, they sent advance guards into the city, not only to hold the gates, but to search places, churches and abbeys, where armed men might lie in hiding. Company after company had clattered in, with no sound to greet them save the clangour of their horses’ hoofs. The streets were silent, the houses empty, the church gates open, the gardens deserted. In St. Pelinore’s they had found a few infirm folk who had taken sanctuary before the altar, while the very dogs seemed to have fled the city.
Thus when Tristan and Rosamunde came from the Mad Mere with their hundred men, Agravale of the south was in Blanche’s hands. She had quartered her men within the walls, but had made no state entry into the city. Nor had she suffered Columbe’s coffin to be taken in, remembering her promise to Tristan in this matter.
On the morrow after Tristan’s joining the Duchess, they marched into Agravale with banners flying, trumpets pealing through the empty streets. Eight men of Samson’s company carried Columbe’s coffin upon their shoulders, Tristan walking bareheaded behind the body, with Blanche and Rosamunde following at his heels. After them came the Duchess’s knights, their shields covered, their swords reversed. Yet Tristan had ordered the bells to be rung, the trumpets to be blown as though for a victory. Had he not taken Columbe from her grave of shame to tomb her royally within the walls of Agravale?
Thus with bell a-swing, arms clanging, trumpets screaming, they came through the wide and splendid streets to the great church of St. Pelinore. On either hand rose the rich houses of white stone, and the broad gardens brimming with early flowers. At the gate of the church Tristan stood aside with drawn sword, suffered Blanche and Rosamunde to pass in before him. Above shone the painted roof, on either side the tall bejewelled windows, panels of colour let into the grey wall. Columbe’s coffin was carried up the aisle, into the choir, past the carved stalls to where the high altar shone with alabaster and gold. Tristan mounted the seven steps, turned and faced the knights and the rough soldiery.
“Sirs,” he said, bending his head towards the Duchess, “by God’s grace, and this good lady’s nobleness, we are masters of Agravale and of the Southern Marches. Yonder lies Columbe of Purple Isle, even my sister, whom Jocelyn slew by Ogier’s sword. By your good grace I will bury her here, even under the high altar of the southern saint, Pelinore.”
The whole church cheered him, smote their shields, the thunder of the voices beating upon the roof. Many of the men who had followed Tristan and Samson ran to the outbuildings where tools were stored, came back bearing picks and bars of iron. Tristan pointed them to the altar.
“Break down this table for me,” he cried, with upraised sword. “Carve me a grave that will hold my sister.”
Silence fell upon the mass of steel-capped heads that filled the church from wall to wall. Desecration—but what of that? Was a broken grave worse than an outraged hearth, than homeless women or murdered men? Soon came the sharp clangour of pick and bar as Tristan’s soldiers broke the altar. Alabaster and marble, gold work and precious stones came crumbling down the whitened steps, till the altar became a ruinous heap, its pomp a pile of dust and rubble, glistening with gold work and gleaming gems. Beneath four great flagstones that the men had laid bare was tombed the body of St. Pelinore.
Under these stones they came upon a leaden coffin, with a cross of tarnished gold riveted thereon. In the grave were a staff, a pair of sandals, and a faded robe. For the moment the men recoiled from the coffin and the relics of a saint. Tristan, seeing their moral quandary, sprang over the pile of rubbish into the grave and touched the leaden coffin with his sword.
“What of Holy Guard, Sir Saint?” he said. “Thou who persecutest in visions, rise up and prove thy power.”