“Ha, Heaven see to it, when I have Jocelyn by the throat, I will break his back as I would break a distaff.”
Hard by the sea there was a certain strong place set upon a rock, Tor’s Tower by name. It was a wild pile of masonry clinging to naked stone, wind-beaten and boisterous. The place had fallen by treachery into Papist hands, so Samson gathered from men who joined him on the march. A Papal garrison had been established there, some of the bloodiest ruffians in the south.
Tor’s Tower stood a mile from a great arm of the sea. Between the rock and the shore were treacherous marshes, while on the landward side wild heathland dipped to a waste of woods. Dull skies hurried over the place; the wind piped keen from over the sea. A narrow causeway led to the tower, winding round the flank of the rock. It was the very aerie Samson coveted till he had hatched a flight of goodly eagles.
Tristan rode through the woods and reconnoitred the tower, saw that weeks would be needed to starve such a place. Even as he lay hid in the woods, some two-score spears rode home from a foray, passing close by Tristan’s lair. They had wine skins and spoil laid over their shoulders, also two young peasant girls bound back to back, and tied together on a horse. The men’s rough jesting reached Tristan’s ears, he heard their oaths and their unclean talk. His fingers itched for the pommel of his sword; he kept cover, however, and bided his time.
Tristan and Samson were soon agreed in the matter. When dark had fallen, they marched over the moor, left twenty men to guard the causeway, climbed up with the rough ladders they had hewn in the woods. The sky was of ebony, sealed up against the stars. Half the Papists were drunk in the place when Samson’s men planted their ladders against the wall. Tristan was the first to leap down into the court. He slew two guards who kept the gate, hurled down the bar, shot back the bolts. Samson’s men came in like a mill-race, and there was bloody work in court and hall. When they had made an end of the vermin, they cast their bodies down the cliff, remembering Joyous Vale and the town in the valley.
Tristan and Samson watched the dawn streak the eastern sky with gold above the woods. They were masters of Tor’s Tower and the wild wastes that glimmered towards the sea, while fifty dead men were wallowing in the marshes at the foot of the rock. The tower was well victualled, could be held for months by loyal and wary men. Samson was for making it a rocky refuge to the scattered companies of the Seven Streams.
“Give me but one sure pinnacle,” he said, striking the battlements with the scabbard of his sword, “one high place where we may rear up our flag, and the sheep will take courage, gather, turn to a pack of wolves. Tor’s Tower shall be our beacon height. Give me till the spring, and the southrons shall find no feeble rabble for their swords.”
Tristan had a more passionate quest within his heart, and his thoughts, like swift swallows, pinioned south. He had sworn solemnly to his own honour that he would follow Rosamunde and set her free.
“Brother,” he said, “hold Tor’s Tower till I come again; send out your riders through the countryside. Men will gather when a flag’s unfurled.”
“Go where you will,” said Samson, grasping his shoulder; “the star leads towards the south. Ha, good rogue, have I not hit you fair? God keep you on such an errand.”