“Happy brother,” he retorted, running his hand over the horse’s black mane.
“Ah, Tristan,” she said, with strange motherliness in voice and mood, “there will come a day when some woman will be happy with a heart such as yours. If for a sister you will dare so much, what will your faith be to one dearer than all the sisters who tread the world?”
They had come to the town, sunk deep in gardens beside the lake. Its roofs were ruddy as an autumn orchard, its highways paved with white stones; peace seemed to cover it, and great content. No battlements frowned black-browed over the meadows. Beauty and simple truth sat throned in its calm heart.
As for Rosamunde, she was queen therein; Tristan gathered as much before they had gone fifty paces of the grey, white stones. Her empire lay with the people’s hearts. She was mother, lady, friend to all. Children ran to her when they saw her face. She had a kiss, a smile, an outstretched hand for each. Some brought her flowers, posies of red and white, which Tristan, taking, laid within his shield. The women beamed from doorways as she passed. The peasants louted to her, warm homage on their sun-tanned faces. She had a word, a smile of sympathy for all. That they loved her, Tristan could reason well.
“To-day, Samson comes to us,” she said to those she passed, “to-night, friends, gather to the castle. Samson will speak to us there. Bring with you your children. They must share the truth.”
Tristan, forgetful of the mild eyes that stared at him, a stranger in Joyous Vale, wondered in his heart who Samson was. Perhaps a priest, a minstrel, an arch-heretic. If these good folk were apostates, he could praise their heresy. Sin, poverty, and shame had little heritage in Joyous Vale. He saw no beggars in the streets, no rags, no misery, no unclean thing. The faces round him were as fresh as May, serene and simple, harbingers of good. If this same Samson had wrought all this, surely of all men he could be counted happy.
In this wise, leading his black horse by the bridle, Tristan came with Rosamunde to her husband’s home. Tristan was not unloth to see this Ronan, whose wife she was. One truth he had gathered well: Columbe, his sister, was not in Joyous Vale.
CHAPTER VI
Many a year had passed since the rough folk of the Seven Streams had first murmured against the sleek and masterful priests whose god seemed the god of wine-bibbing and of greed. Arrogance and luxury and all manner of uncleanness had spread through the abbeys of the land, staining the robes of the Church with scarlet, tainting every holy place. Charity had become as naught; lust and avarice had walked hand in hand; tyranny and violence had reigned together.
Thus through many long years there had been a great sundering of the sympathies of the people from the tall towers and gorgeous palaces of the Church. Not openly had the slow change come, but with stealth, even as the earth’s crust is mined by the tunnelling of subterranean streams. Celibacy, that perilous plant, had cast its unclean tendrils over the land, bearing dark fruit in many a solemn haunt, making vain show, hiding the bane beneath. Slowly all reverence had elapsed, and fear had been swallowed up in hate. From the broad lands and the dark forests teeming with wild beasts, murmurings, like the moanings of the wind, had spread and gathered through the Seven Streams.