Tristan, sitting by the table with his chin upon his fists, kept wide awake and listened. The fire flung huge shadows about the walls; the smoke-grimed roof was steeped in gloom. From the room beyond the closed and gridded door the mirth grew more boisterous as the night wore on. Music and mad laughter mingled in a riotous flux of sound, while ever and again a woman’s squeal would top the din. In that dark, firelit room Tristan’s manhood gathered fanaticism for the future, and he began to understand the more why Samson had blasphemed against the Church.
Ogier had fallen asleep upon the settle. Tristan saw the man’s stout chest heaving to and fro like a smith’s bellows. The sound of his snoring seemed to shake the room, as the breath rattled and bubbled in his throat. Ogier’s huge mouth was open, his fangs gleaming above his uncleanly beard.
Tristan rose from the table with his eyes on the sleeping man. Holding the scabbard of his sword, he climbed the stairway, pushed back the grille, looked through into the inner room. A stream of light gushed through the grating upon his face, with odours of wine and cooked meats and of scented garments. The scene within was more like some classic orgy than the breaking of bread by a Christian Bishop. Couches were spread upon the floor about a low table covered with flowers. Lamps hung from the roof, hooded with crimson cloth. Goblets and silver chargers bearing fruit and rich food stuff gleamed in the light of the lamps.
At the end of the room, half lying in a woman’s lap, was Jocelyn of Agravale with a garland of vine leaves about his forehead. His face was suffused, his eyes bright with the fumes of wine. The woman beside him was robed in scarlet, arms and shoulders bare and white, a wreath of roses over her raven hair. To the right of the Bishop sprawled Benedict of the Marches, a brown-eyed wench leaning on his shoulder and pouring wine over his head. There were three more women about the table, whose charms were sacred to Benedict’s two esquires.
Tristan, very grim about the mouth, closed the grille, and sprang down the stairs. He had seen enough to disgust his manhood, for, bred in the strong, clean lap of the sea, he had little understanding of such sins as these. Perhaps in his heart he had feared to find Rosamunde in that company of the saints. Not that he doubted her, for his faith was not feeble in the matter of her honour. Yet, with such holy rogues as Jocelyn ruling the land, some hideous tyranny might have brought her low.
Ogier was still snoring on the settle before the fire, and Tristan strode up and down with the ruddy glow playing and sparkling upon his hauberk. The laughter and bursts of music came more crazed and disjointed to his ears. His cheeks tingled, his hands quivered for the sword. What if Jocelyn, hypocritical sensualist that he was, had Rosamunde imprisoned and in his power? Perhaps she was under this very roof, mewed amid madmen and beings bereft of all cleanly and regenerating reason. Tristan could not suffer such thoughts as these. He glared at Ogier sleeping by the fire, as though ready to throttle him as he slept.
A distant clamour in the house stayed him in his stride for the moment, and Tristan heard blows given, a rough voice cursing as in furious wrath. Screams came ebbing from some cell or passage overhead. There was the rush of feet down stone stairs, a panting outcry, a scraping of fingers along the walls of a dark gallery. The door jerked open. A young girl with her hair tangled over her face ran into the room, stared round her like a hunted thing hounded into a trap. Her ragged gown reached only to her knees, and she pressed the rotten cloth over her bosom with both hands. Bloody weals showed on her bare shoulders; her eyes were wide and piteous with fear. Even as she stood there shivering like a reed, Nicholas the warden came in, his teeth agleam, his whip swinging in his hand. Breathing hard, he made at the girl, smote at her, once, twice, while she cowered beneath the lash, holding up her hands to break the blows. Tristan’s blood was up on the instant. He sprang on Nicholas, took him by the waist, hurled him heavily along the floor. The girl, with but half a glance at Tristan, turned and fled back through the door, while Ogier, waking with the din, scrambled up, rubbing his eyes with his hairy paws.
“A thousand curses! What are you at, lad?”
“Breaking that old wolf’s head.”
“Pah, he has no muscle for such as you. You’re drunk, I say.”