“Hence,” he said, “we must purge this acre. God have pity on these fools; they know not what they do.”
Strong hands swept the man away; he disappeared into the press like a fallen tree dragged down by the eddies of a stream in flood. A knot of armed men charged out by the door, bearing an honest martyr in their midst. The floor before the Bishop’s chair was empty. A hush fell upon the hall. Tristan, keen as a hawk, waited for what should follow.
An odour of violets breathed sudden upon his face. The perfume recalled to him a woman’s room, burdened with odours, smothered with colours and fair flowers. The scent seemed to fall as from the richly embroidered bosom of a woman’s gown. Turning, he saw, with a leap of the heart, Rosamunde standing under the arch of the doorway, the woman Isabel shivering at her heels. The men gave back from her as from before a queen. The Lady of La Vallée Joyeuse carried her pride like an ivory coronet upon her brow. Tristan saw no fear upon her face, no tremor upon her lips. She moved towards the daïs, her green gown sweeping the stones, her long hair streaking her shoulders. She looked neither to the right hand nor the left. Her eyes were fixed upon the red banner blazoned with a yellow cross that hung above dead Ronan’s chair.
A great silence held the hall. The rough men of the sword stared mutely at the woman’s face, as she stood, a living emblem of tragedy, pale yet unfrightened, strong in her own strength. A slight colour played upon her face as she sustained the insolent gapings of those around her. Man muttered to man. Some jeered and grinned, elbowed each other, croaked like birds of prey. As for Tristan, the hot blood rose to his brain; he set his teeth, took a deep breath, bided his time.
Bishop Jocelyn was staring Rosamunde over with an appreciative loosening of the mouth that was in no way platonic. His eyes had a glassy brilliance under the finely arched brows. He played with the silver clapper of the bell, rose to his feet with an exaggerated display of courtesy, spoke to Rosamunde as she stood before the daïs.
“Madame,” he said, letting his glances rove over her full bosom and splendid throat, “we of the Church hold you accused of treachery and treason to our Holy Father the Pope. You and your people have set his ordinances at defiance. For this reason were we bidden to gather the armed sons of the Church, and make war upon such heretics as blasphemed the Creed. Yet, madame, it is given us to promise mercy to those whose hearts remain not froward towards the truth. God has dealt hardly with you and your home to-night. There is yet time for Mother Church to receive you once more into her bosom.”
Tristan, rugged rebel, would have laughed at the priest’s words had the chance been less momentous. God’s justice, forsooth! Mercy from the intolerable tyranny of the Church! The stout sense in him jeered and mocked at the pharisaical verbiage. Straining from the pillar, peering over the shoulder of the man in front of him, he waited with a frown for Rosamunde’s answer. He was forewarned in his heart what her words would be. Her back was towards him, yet there shone clear defiance from every line of her tall frame.
“Priest,” she said at last, casting out her words so that they seemed to smite the wall, “do you blaspheme God by working iniquities in His name? Is it Christ’s ordinance to spill blood—to dishonour women? Out upon you, mummers and jugglers that you are! Burn me to-night if the deed suits your religion.”
Her words rang like the blows of a sword in Tristan’s brain. Heavens! she had courage! The man exulted even in the temerity of her scorn. He mouthed her words over to himself with a grim and strenuous relish. Here were home-thrusts for the gamblers with God. Bishop Jocelyn still stood behind the table, a sleek worldliness warming his shaven face.
“Madame,” he said slowly, “your tongue out-runs your reason.”