The Fortunes of Garin by Mary Johnston (finding audrey .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Mary Johnston
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Garin felt the infecting wave. At the head of the train, dismounted, barefoot, wearing each a white garment that reached half-way between knee and ankle, bare-headed, moving a few paces before their own mounted knights, appeared the lords of Panemonde, father and son. Sir Eudes was white-headed, white-bearded, finely-featured, tall and lean. His son, Sir Aimar, seemed not older—or but little older—than Garin’s self, and what the girl had said appeared the truth.
The two came close to the lime tree. Garin, dropping his mantle, stepped into the road and fell upon[139] both knees, suppliant-wise. “Lord of Panemonde,” he cried, “let me go with you to the land over the sea!”
Sir Eudes and his son stood still, and behind them the riders checked their horses.
“What is your name, youth?” asked the first, “And whence do you come?”
“Garin Rogier,” answered Garin, “and from Limousin. I was a younger brother, and have set out to seek my fortune. Of your grace, Lord of Panemonde, place me among your men!”
Sir Eudes regarded him shrewdly. “I make my guess that you are a runaway from trouble.”
“If I am,” said Garin, “it is no trouble that will touch your honour if you take me! I fought, with good reason, one that was more powerful than I.”
The other made to shake his head and go on by. But Garin spread out his arms that he might not pass and still cried, “Take me with you, Lord of Panemonde! I have vowed to go with you across the sea, and so to serve you that you will make me a knight!”
The two gazed at him, and those behind them gazed. He kneeled, so resolved, so energized, so seeing the fate he had chosen, that as at Castel-Noir, so now, the glow within came in some fashion through the material man. From his blue-grey eyes light seemed to dart, his hair, between gold and brown, became a fine web holding light, his flesh seemed to bloom. His field of force, expanding, touched them.[140] “In the name of the Mother of God!” cried Garin; but what the man within meant was, “Because I will it, O Lord of Panemonde!”
The people on foot, too far in the rear to see more than that there was a momentary halting of the train, began a louder singing.
“Jerusalem!
Shall the paynim hold thee,
Jerusalem?
And shame our Lord Jesus,
Jerusalem?
And shame our blessed Lady, his meek Mother,
Jerusalem?
So that they say, ‘Why come not the men
To slay Mahound and cleanse our holy places?
Where are the knights, the sergeants and the footmen?’
Jerusalem!
Who takes the cross and wendeth over seas,
Jerusalem!
Will save his soul thereby, raze out his sins,
Jerusalem!”
Sir Eudes de Panemonde stared at the kneeling figure. But the young knight beside him who had stood in silence, his eyes upon the suppliant, now spoke. “Let him go with us, father! Give him to me for esquire.—There is that that draws between us.”
The father, who had a great affection for his son, looked from him to Garin and back again. “He is a youth well-looking and strong,” he said. “Perhaps he may do thee good service!”
The chant, renewed, and taken up from the roadside, came to his ear. He crossed himself.
[141]
“Nor may I deny to our Lord Jesus one servant who will strike down the infidel! Nor to the youth himself the chance to win forgiveness of sins!” He spoke to Garin. “Stand up, Garin Rogier! Have you a horse?”
Garin rose to his feet. “No, lord. But I have money sufficient to buy one.”
Sir Aimar spoke again. “Pierre Avalon will sell him one when we come to the monastery.”
The father nodded. “Have you confessed and received absolution?”
“One week ago, lord. But when we come to the church I will find a priest. And when I am shriven I will take the cross.”
“Then,” said Sir Eudes, “it is agreed, Garin Rogier. You are my man and my son’s man. As for becoming knight, let us first see what blows you deal and what measure you keep! Now delay us no longer.”
He put himself into motion, and his son walked beside him. The mounted men followed, their horses stepping slowly. Then came the stream afoot, and Garin joined himself to this.
“Who takes the cross and wendeth over seas,
Jerusalem!
Will save his soul thereby, raze out his sins,
Jerusalem!”
Here was the calvary again, and the monk sitting beside it—here was the church, jutting out from the monastery—and people about it, and priests and[142] monks—and a loud and deep chanting—and a mounting sea of emotion. Many broke into cries, some, phrensied, fell to the earth, crying that they had a vision.
“To slay Mahound, and cleanse our sacred places!”
The mass was sung, the sacrament given those who were going to the land over sea. Garin found his priest and was shriven, then knelt with the esquires and men-at-arms and with them took the Body. Upon his breast was sewn a white cross. He had, with all who went, the indulgence. He was delivered from all the sins that through his life, until that day, he had committed.
The mass was sung. A splinter of St. Andrew’s cross—the church’s great possession—was venerated. The two de Panemondes, rising from their knees, passed from the church to the monastery, and here, in the prior’s room, their kinsmen and peers about them, they were clothed as knights again. Without, in a grey square, shaded by old trees, Garin purchased a horse from Pierre Avalon.
Sir Eudes and his son came forth in hauberk and helm. The knights for the ships and the land over the sea mounted, their followers mounted. Farewells were said. Those who were going drew into ranks. A priest blessed them. The people wept and cried out blessings. The monks raised a Latin chant. The sky was sapphire, a light wind carried to and fro the autumn leaves. Sir Eudes de Panemonde[143] and his son touched their horses with their gilded spurs. The knights followed, the esquires and men-at-arms. Behind them the voices, at first swelling louder, sank as lengthened the road between. They pressed on, and now they lost that sound and lost the church, the monastery, and the castle of Panemonde.... Now the leper by the roadside was passed, still sitting beneath the cross, tinkling his bell. In the distance was seen the town that Garin had left that morning. The company did not enter it, but turned aside into a road that ran to the southward and then east and then south again. So at last, to-morrow at sunset, they would come to the port and to the ships that would bring them to Syria.
Garin rode in a dream. He thought of Raimbaut and of Foulque, of Castel-Noir and Roche-de-Frêne, but most he thought of the Fair Goal, and tried to see her, in her court he knew not where.
[144]
THIBAUT CANTELEU
“Who would risk never, risks ever,” said the Princess Audiart, and moving her rook, checked the marshal’s king.
Her cousin Guida, a blonde of much beauty, sitting watching the game, made a sound of demurral. The marshal’s hand hovered over a piece.
“Do not play courtly, Lord Stephen,” said the princess. “Play fairly!”
Whereupon Stephen pushed forward a different piece and, releasing his own king, put hers in jeopardy.
“Now what will you do, Audiart?” cried Guida. “You were too daring!”
“That is as may be,” answered the princess, and studied the board.
In the great fireplace of the hall beechwood blazed and helped the many candles to give light. It was Lenten tide and cold enough to make the huge fire a need and a pleasure. In the summer the floor had been strewn with buds and leaves, but now there lay upon it eastern cloths with bear-skins brought from the North. There were seats of various kinds,—settles or benches, divan-like arrangements of cushions. Knights and ladies occupied these, or stood, or moved about at will. So spacious was the hall[145] that these and other folk of the court—pages, jongleurs, a jester with cap-and-bells, dogs, a parrot on a swinging perch, two chaplains in a corner, various clerkly and scholarly persons such as never lacked in Gaucelm’s court, two or three magnificently dressed people in the train of a Venetian, half merchant, half noble, and rich as a soldan, whom Gaucelm at the moment entertained—gave no feeling of a throng. The raised or princely part of the hall, in itself a goodly space, had quiet enough for rational converse, even for sitting withdrawn into one’s self, studying with eyes upon the fire matters beyond the beechwood flame.
Gaucelm the Fortunate, seated in his great, richly carved chair, talked with the Venetian. Some paces away, but yet upon the dais, Alazais held court. Between, the Princess Audiart played chess with Stephen the Marshal. The castle and town and princedom of Roche-de-Frêne and all that they held were seven years and some months older than upon that autumn day when the squire Garin had knelt in the cathedral, and ridden through the forest, and fought for a shepherdess.
The years had not made Alazais less beauteous. She sat in a low chair, robed in buttercup yellow richly embroidered and edged with fur. She held a silver ball pierced and filled with Arabian perfumes. The Venetian had given it to her, and now she raised it to her nostrils, and now she played with it with an indolent, slow, graceful movement of her white hands.[146] About her were knights and ladies, and in front, upon a great silken cushion placed upon the floor, sat a slender, brilliant girl with a voice of beauty and flexibility and a genius for poetic narration. The court took toll of such a talent, was taking toll now. The damosel, in a low and thrilling voice and with appropriate gesture, told a lay of Arthur’s knights. Those around listened; firelight and candle-light made play; at the lower end of the hall a jongleur, trying his viol, came in at the pauses with this or that sweet strain.
At the other end of the broad, raised space Prince Gaucelm and the Venetian left talk of Venice trade, of Cyprus and Genoa, and came to status and event this side the Alps.
“Duke Richard of Aquitaine plays the rebel to his father the King of England and quarrels with his cousin the King of France and wars against his neighbour the Count of Toulouse. Count Savaric of Montmaure and his son Count Jaufre—”
The Princess Audiart won the game of chess, won fairly. “You couch a good lance and build a good house, Lord Stephen,” she said. “Yesterday, it was I who was vanquished!”
Guida had moved away, joining the group about the girl on the silk cushion. Stephen the Marshal took one of the ivory chessmen in his hand and turned it from side to side. “Montmaure!” he said. “Montmaure grows more puffed with pride than mortal man should be!”
[147]
The princess nodded. “Yes. My lord count sees himself as the great fish for whom the ocean was built.”
The marshal put down the chess-piece and took up another. “Have you ever seen Jaufre de Montmaure?”
“No.”
“I saw him at Périgueux. He is tall and red-gold like his father, but darker in hue. He has a hawk nose, and there is a strange dagger-scar across his cheek.—What is it, my Lady Audiart?”
The princess was sitting with parted lips and with eyes that looked far away. She shivered a little, shrugging her shoulders. “Nothing! A fancy. I remembered something. But a-many men have dagger scars.—Jaufre de Montmaure! No, I think that I never saw him. Nor do I wish to see him. Let him stay with Aquitaine and be his favourite!”
“I know not how long that will last. Now they are ruthless and reckless together, and they say that any day you can see Richard’s arm around his neck. But Duke Richard,” said the marshal, “is much the nobler man.”
The princess laughed. “You give faint praise! Jesu! If what they say of Count Jaufre be true—”
There fell a silence. Stephen the Marshal turned and turned the chess-piece. “The prince will send me presently with representations to King Philip at Paris.”
“I know. It seems wise to do that.”
[148]
“I will do my best,” said Stephen the Marshal; and sat silent again. Then, “I will find at Paris festivals and tourneys, no doubt, and for Roche-de-Frêne’s honour and my own, I must play my part in those matters also.” He put down the chess-piece, and brought his hands together. “Queens and princesses may accept, in courtly wise, heart and devoir of true knights! My Lady Audiart! I plead again for some favour of yours that I may wear. For, as God lives, I will wear no other lady’s!”
The Princess Audiart looked at him kindly, a little mockingly, a little mournfully. “Stephen—Stephen! will you be a better or a braver man, or a fitter envoy to King Philip, with my glove in your helmet? No, you will not!”
“I
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