She stood forward suddenly, and stooping a little, kissed him upon the brow. It was done in a moment, but the shaft had sped. Tristan, red to the lips, went back from her with a strange light in his eyes. He was hers from that moment, body and soul.
The sinking sun had built a golden highway over the water when Tristan came to the lake’s rim. The woods stood wondrous green against the sombre purple of the hills, and the reeds and rushes glittered like silver wire. Water-fowl winged from out the shallows as he unmoored a boat that lay half grounded by a stone stage. Thrusting out and setting the water spinning at the prow, he was soon deep in the golden pathway towards the west. Two furlongs away the island cast its gloom upon the lake. The water lay black and deep about its rocks; the stunted trees were bannered with crimson and gold. Tristan was soon under their shadows, where he ran the boat aground in a small inlet, clambered out, and sought the chapel.
The place stood ruinous, plunged deep in weeds, festooned with ivy and many lusty plants, choked thick with brambles. A fallen pine tree lay across the roofless porch. Briers and nettles cumbered the floor. Tristan, struggling through in the half gloom, had to draw his sword where the chancel began. A great thorn tree flourished betwixt the roofless walls. Tristan clove a pathway through the prickly mass, trampled the nettles, climbed the low steps towards the altar. Crouching, he sought for Rosamunde’s stone. It was some while before he tore the rank herbage aside, and found the trefoil carved beneath. The slab had been glued by damp and moss. It was smooth and heavy, giving no vantage to his fingers. Working with the sword point, he prised up the stone, thrust in his hand, and drew the casket out.
Night had fallen and the west drew dim. Hardly had he huddled the casket into his bosom, turned back the stone over the hole, when an uprush of gruff voices rose as from the dark thickets of the place. Tristan, starting up with twitching sword, fell back against the altar, alert and grim. The plash of churned water broke on the evening silence, the creaking of sweeps in the rowlocks. Scrambling out towards the gate, Tristan saw the tall mast of a ship stride black across the sky. It skirted the island, towering over the trees, a scarlet streamer afloat from its gilded vane. Like a great finger it seemed to stretch towards the sky, held aloft as in silent warning.
Threading the thickets with the oaken casket under his arm, Tristan came to the island’s rim. He looked over the water towards the west, and saw that the lake seemed peopled with shadowy ships, striding solemn and silent out of the night. A thousand oars seemed to churn the water. Bulwarks glimmered, armour shone. Like giant ghosts the ships crept on, sable and strange against the fading west.
Sudden out of the gloom leapt the cry of a horn, its voice echoing from the hills. A vague clamour came from the shore. In the town, torches were gleaming like red moths in a garden. From the castle the alarm bell boomed and clashed, for the Papal fleet had descended on Joyous Vale.
CHAPTER IX
Tristan, made his way back to the boat, poled out from the island, keeping its black shadows betwixt him and the nearest galley. He rowed eastwards into the open cavern of the night, his eyes roving from the distant town to the great ships stealing over the water. Their tall masts rose against the last gleaming cranny in the west. Beyond them the mountains towered solemn and stupendous, fringed with aureoles of transient fire. Even in the half gloom Tristan could see a vague glittering movement on the slopes behind the castle, a glitter that told of armed men marching from the hills. It grew plain to Tristan, as his broad back swung with the oars, that the Pope’s men had come by sea from the Southern Marches, sailed up the great river, landed troops in the woods, struck a sudden blow at the chief lord of the province of the Seven Streams. While Ronan had grown drunk with the strong wine of jealousy, Death had descended upon Joyous Vale, and sprinkled the Cross with the blood of sacrifice.
There was a swirl of thought in Tristan’s brain. Rosamunde of Joyous Vale had his mind in thrall, and his first duty to her was easy in its consummation. Leaning his chest upon his oars, he reached for the casket where it lay on the plankings at his feet. The thing was bound with iron, its wood black and ponderous with age. Tristan balanced it in the hollow of his hand, wondering whether it would sink or swim. The feminine temptation to force the lid never thrust a suggestion into his brain. Tossing the casket over the gunwale, he saw it sink in a wavering circle of light. For fully a minute he watched the place, that he might be assured of the casket’s burial. With the vow to Rosamunde fulfilled, he turned both his thoughts and his boat towards the shore.
The ships had lighted flares upon their prows, a crescent of fire that deepened towards the town. Many of the galleys had touched the shore; Tristan could hear the crews shouting and plashing in the shallows, as they disembarked to attack the town. Behind the poops of the ships deep gloom prevailed, while a cresset glared on the castle tower, a red tuft of flame gemming the night. The bell still tolled. It ceased of a sudden; the silence was more sinister than its clangour.