The Seven Streams

by Warwick Deeping

  “Feed away, my son,” said the giant, with his hand on the tankard; “you can keep your mouth shut, I guess, when it is a matter of discretion. You and I ride out with Jocelyn.”

  “Am I not an image that beholds and sees not?” said Tristan from the table.

  “Ha, lad, you will stand in need of blindness to-night. The Bishop will amuse himself. And to be honest, he can out-devil all the Gadarene swine when the fit is on him.”

  “The good saint.”

  Ogier laughed.

  “My son,” he said, “I am getting grey, and I have seen many strange sights in my time. It has always puzzled me to discover where the devil all that virtue hides itself which the priests prate of, mostly to the women. Silence. Behold the virtue, my son, necessary to the honest fellow who would fill his pockets from the coffers of the Church. Come, now, I hear the trumpet in the court.”

  Jocelyn, Bishop of Agravale, had possessed himself of some persuasions of piety in the hearts of the innocents to whom he ministered. He was a man who believed at least in cleansing the outside of the pot. To rule by means of the prerogative of righteousness, a man needs some little reputation for that virtue. And since the robes and insignia of office were scrupulously cleansed and burnished, Jocelyn found opportunities to pander in secret to the inner man. There was a subtle conviction in him that to be able to resist the devil, one must bow down and propitiate him at stated intervals. The occasional lapse made the intervening virtue the more easy. Priest that he was, he could not pose eternally, even to himself, as a species of waxen image in which the virile blood had been turned to milk.

  It was publicly acknowledged in Agravale that the good Bishop rode regularly into the wilderness to eat grass like Nebuchadnezzar in order to purge the brain of the vain follies of human pride. He held long vigils in the woods, so his people believed; played the hermit under the winking stars. It was whispered that celestial visions had been spread before his eyes, that St. Pelinore had come down and walked the earth with him to his great comfort. Like Elijah in the wilderness, he was sustained by the grace of heaven, and by the dew of sanctity that descended upon his soul.

  Thus Ogier and Tristan followed him that day from Agravale, two stalwart exemplars of the Church Militant. The Bishop rode a mouse-coloured mare, trapped with red harness and a saddle of carved ivory. He wore a plain black robe with a sable hood and a black mask over his face. Ogier rode a great white stallion, a huge beast, the only horse in Agravale who could bear his bulk. Tristan, with his red shield strapped between his shoulders and the episcopal white surcoat over his hauberk, rode beside Ogier on this saintly pilgrimage.

  The three sallied from Agravale, leaving its white walls that climbed to the very verge of the great southern precipice. Its towers and turrets ascended towards the blue. Northwards the woods bristled under the sun, a glitter like blackened steel under the summer sky. The road wound under ancient trees. Many a huge ilex cast its gloom over the grass. The stone pine towered on the hills above the dense woods of beech and chestnut, and the valleys were full of primeval oaks, whose sinewy limbs stretched far over the sun-streaked sward.

  As for Tristan, his mood partook of the silence of the woods. He was thinking of the Duchess Lilias, that she was not a dame to be flouted with impunity, nor one who could forgive the starving of her desire. Though the summer was flying he had no news of Rosamunde. So utterly had she vanished from the ken of the world, that some Old Man of the Sea might have mured her in a cave under amber-bosomed waves. That she was dead Tristan would not believe. There was an instinctive faith within his heart that Rosamunde lived, perhaps to her greater misery. Ogier himself might have the secret locked in his ungainly carcass, yet Tristan had no desire to betray his quest before he could mend matters to his credit.

  Jocelyn had little to say to the pair as they rode through the wilds together. Once free of Agravale, he had put the mask from off his face, and rode with his cowl turned back, his sleek and sensuous face white in the sun. Tristan saw him smile often in a prophetic way, as though the pilgrimage were much to his liking. In a wallet at his saddle bow he had a flask of red wine, and the churchman’s lips were often puckered round the mouth of the flask.

  As the day declined, they came to a wilder region, where pines grew thick and cranberries tufted half-hidden rocks. The track was a mere grass ride, two cubits broad, where Ogier and Tristan followed Jocelyn in single file. A desolate valley opened gradually before them, steeped on every side with the black umbrage of the woods. To the west a craggy peak smote the setting sun. In the lap of the valley lay a mere, an island rising black and dim above the silvered surface. Grassland gilded with asphodel dipped towards the water. Yellow flags grew in the shallows; there were lilies floating beyond the rushes.

  The sun sank down behind the crag as the three crossed the grassland towards the water. Blood-red streamers streaked the sky; a golden mist ascended towards the woods. The island in the mere grew black as ebony, overarched by a canopy of scarlet clouds. Tristan could see a stone building rising from the island’s thickets, and the place breathed forth mystery towards the hastening night.

  Ogier took a bugle horn that hung round his neck, and blew three blasts that set the wild woods ringing. At the sound a boat put out from the island and moved over the smooth water towards the bank. A strange babel of wild voices seemed to fall as from the sky. Cries came as from lost souls tortured in a burning pit. While Tristan listened with a frown on his face, the cries died down into the woodland silence.

  The barge was rowed by an old man, with a beak of a nose, fierce, restless eyes, and a mouth like a flint. As the barge ran to the stage, the old man let a horse-board down. The barge could bear but one of them at a time. Tristan and the giant waited at the water’s edge while the boat bore Jocelyn over the water, to where the island rose sable as the night.

  Tristan’s brows were knotted above his eyes. The mystery of the place had set him musing, casting about for Jocelyn’s reason in riding into such a wilderness. He questioned Ogier as they watched the barge.

  “Where have we come?” he asked, with a keen stare into the giant’s face.

  Ogier grinned and licked his lips.

  “Men call it the Mad Mere,” he said. “Yonder house is a hospital for such as froth at the mouth when the moon is full.”

  “And that clamour when you blew your horn?”

  “The mad folk squealing. Old Nicholas chastens them often with his whip.”

  Tristan still gazed at the island under his heavy brows.

  “And my lord the Bishop?” he asked.

  “My son,” quoth Ogier, with one of his grins, “if you are ambitious, keep your tongue from stealing the truth.”

  “Have done with your damned riddles.”

  “My son, Master Jocelyn refreshes himself after the dull services of sanctity. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. You shall behold how frail are the feet of the holy.”

  “I grow wise—in time.”

  “Ten thousand devils, man, you shall see such sights as shall make you grow green as an unripe fig. Keep your mouth shut in Agravale, and you will prosper.”

  The barge drifted back to them, and Tristan took the next passage, waited by the landing stage while this grey Charon ferried Ogier and his white horse over. Tristan had cast rapid glances round him as he waited. The place was built of rough-hewn stone, walled in on every side, with narrow squints for windows. Cypresses and yews grew close about the walls. The gate was flanked by a stone tower, standing black and sullen against the sky. Ever and again an eerie whimper came from the place, or a wild medley of voices, more like the chattering of a band of apes. There were three more horses tethered in a roughly thatched hovel under a walnut tree. A man was asleep there on a pile of hay.

  Ogier landed, dragged the white stallion from the barge by the bridle. The ferryman took the horses, when he had made the boat fast to a great stake by the stage. Ogier knew the ways of the madhouse well enough; Tristan gathered
as much as they passed in together under the low arch of the gate. A narrow courtyard held the centre of the building, with barred windows opening upon it on every side. In the centre of the court stood a great whipping-post with iron wristlets dangling from a rusty chain. Tristan saw all these things as his eyes darted rapid glances hither and thither in the half gloom.

  As they passed through the court, a sudden clamour arose at the narrow windows overhead, where white faces were pressed against the bars. The grated windows seemed filled with mad eyes and dishevelled hair. The beings mured there were as wild beasts starving in a cage. Their cries reverberated through the well of the court, dinning their frenzy into Tristan’s ears.

  Ogier passed into a room opening by a short passage from the court. It looked like a species of guard-room or antechamber, leading by a flight of low steps to a larger room above. A door fitted with an iron grille closed the stairway at the top. In the lower room a fire burned upon the hearth; a meal had been spread on a rough table, and the place was lit by a single iron lamp hanging from the ceiling.

  Ogier unbuckled his sword and flung it with a crash upon a wooden settle. He was hot and out of temper. Drawing a stool to the table, he began to eat like a hungry wolf.

  “Fall to, my son,” he said, flourishing a pot in his right hand; “we shall be on guard all night. Come, keep up your courage.”

  Tristan joined him. They ate in silence, listening to the vague and unhallowed sounds that echoed now and again through this habitation of the mad. Tristan was debating with himself as to what had become of Jocelyn the Bishop.

  As they sat at meat, the sound of a melody played by a rebec and flute quivered down from the upper room. A thrill of laughter stirred in the air; streaks of yellow light poured betwixt the hinges and under the planking of the door. The music increased, as though some blithe company descended to a feast; while within, a man’s gruff voice broke forth into a song. The crabbed and grizzled ferryman came in from the court, and sat down on a stool before the fire.

  Tristan leant over the table, laid a hand upon Ogier’s wrist.

  “Are yonder folk mad—also?”

  The giant grinned and held up a pot.

  “Mad, my son, most mad,” he said; “when the wine flows, you will hear them cackling.”

  A woman’s voice rose in discord to the music, a wild and abandoned scream of inarticulate laughter. Half a dozen tongues seemed to gather in a chorus. The laughter died down, rose again into a squeal of mirth.

  “The Bishop and Black Benedict enjoy themselves,” said Ogier, licking his lips.

  Tristan rose up, thrusting aside his stool.

  “By God,” he said, “I will look through yonder grille.”

  Ogier plunged forward and barred his way.

  “Wait, my son,” he said, with a bending of the brows, “wait till they are drunk enough. Then, by my soul, you shall look at your leisure.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Tristan faced Ogier for the moment as though more than tempted to hold him in defiance. He remembered, however, that the giant was worth more to him as a friend than as an enemy; and making a laugh of the matter, he picked up the stool and returned to his supper. Old Nicholas by the fire had watched them with a dull grin on his ferocious and toad-like face. He poked the embers with a charred stake, winked at Ogier, and waxed witty over the strenuousness of youth.

  “Young blood runs hot, sirs,” he said, “and prithee, what is this chivalry men prate about but youth gone mad.”

  “Ha, old raven, we are all mad to you, since you are scourging lunatic folk all the days of your life. All creation’s moonstruck to an owl hooting in a chimney.”

  “ ’Tis only like drink,” said the ferryman. “Some are quickly overset; others swim in wine—’tis their natural element. All men are mad in measure. These mad folk have more spirit than body; you, Messire Ogier, have more body than spirit. The flesh overbalanceth the spirit, and your fat paunch keeps out the vapours. It is good in season to make of one’s soul a toad under a stone.”

  The old man sniggered, stretched himself, took a knotted whip from the wall, and passed out by a narrow door set back in the thickness of the wall. There was something so evil and repulsive about the creature that the room felt warmer to Tristan when he had gone. Ogier had stretched himself on a settle before the fire, for though it was summer, a cold mist rose from off the mere. Ogier, with his carcass propped before the glow, blinked and dozed after his superhuman meal.

  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 sh
e 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.”

  “Not I. The old cur was scourging a woman with a whip. That is not my fashion. I pitched him over into yonder corner.”

  Ogier bent over Nicholas, raised his shoulders from the floor. The old man groaned a little, bled at the mouth, still held the whip clutched in his right hand. Ogier called for wine. Tristan, very grim, brought him the flask, but would not minister to Nicholas with his own hands.

  “By Peter, my son,” said Ogier, from the floor, “you have come nigh breaking our grandfather’s neck. Hold up, gaffer; swallow some of this strong stuff. Take his heels, you dolt; we’ll lay him on the settle by the fire.”

  Between them they carried Nicholas to the settle, dribbled wine between his teeth, saw his lids quiver as he began to recover from the throw. Tristan had taken the old man’s whip. He broke it like a reed, and threw the fragments into the fire. Ogier, rising from his knees beside the settle, scowled at him with his small flesh-hidden eyes.