The Fortunes of Garin

by Mary Johnston

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE SIEGE

  MONTMAURE had wooden towers drawn even with the walls ofRoche-de-Frêne. From the tower-heads they strove to throw bridgesacross, grapple them to the battlements, send over them—a continuingstream—the starkest fighters, beat down the wall’s defenders, sendthe stream leaping down into the town itself. Elsewhere, under coverof huge shielding structures, Montmaure mined, burrowing in the earthbeneath the opposed defences, striving to bring stone and mortar downin ruin, make a breach whereby to enter. Montmaure had Greek fire,and engines of power to cast the flaming stuff into the town. He hadgreat catapults which sent stones with something of the force ofcannon-balls, and battering rams which shook the city gates. He hadarchers and crossbowmen who from high-built platforms sent their shaftsin a level flight against the men of Roche-de-Frêne upon the walls.He had a huge host to throw against the town—men of Montmaure, men,a great number, given by Duke Richard. He had enough to fight and towatch, and to spare from fighting and watching. He ravaged the countryand had food.

  Roche-de-Frêne fought with the wooden towers, threw down the grapplinghooks and the bridges, thrust the stream back, broken and shatteredinto spray. It sallied forth against those who mined, beat down andset afire the shielding structures, drove from the field the sappersat the walls. It had some store of Greek fire and used it; it hadengines of power and great catapults that sent stones with somethingof the force of cannon-balls against those towers and scaffolds of thefoe. Roche-de-Frêne had archers and crossbowmen, none better, who fromwalls and gate-towers sent shafts in level flights against the highplatforms, and in slant lines against Montmaure attacking in mass,against men upon scaling ladders. It had men whose trade was war,knight and squire, sergeant and footman, lord and Free Companion,—andmen whose trade was not war, but who now turned warrior, burghersfighting for their liberties, their home and their work. But it had notthe numbers that had Montmaure. It knew double-tides of fighting andwatching. It had deep wells and an immemorially strong-flowing spring.But food was failing—failing fast! It had heroism of man, woman, andchild. But hunger and watching and battle at last must wear the highestspirit down, or if not the spirit, the body with which it is clothed.

  It was late, late autumn—Saint Martin’s summer. The days that hadpassed since that short truce and meeting with Montmaure had laidshadows beneath the eyes of the Princess Audiart.... To-day had seenheavy fighting and slaughter. Now it was night, and Audiart in theWhite Tower knelt within the window and looked forth upon the castlebuildings, courts, towers, and walls, and upon the roofs of the town,and the cathedral tower, and further to where showed red light ofMontmaure’s vast encampment. She had been, through the day, upon thewalls.... Her head sank upon her arms. “Jesu, and Mother Mary, andwhoever is pitiful, I, too, am weary of slaughter! A better way—abetter way—”

  She stayed so for some minutes; then, lifting her head, gazed againinto the night. “Who has the key?” she said. “Duke Richard has thekey.” Presently she stood up, rested hands upon the stone sill, drew adeep breath. Her lips parted, her glance swept the wide prospect, thenlifted to the stars. “If I have wit enough and courage enough—thatmight be—” A colour crept into her face. “Was never a right way seemednot at first most hazardous and strange—so much more used are we tothe wrong ways!”

  She looked at the clusters of stars, she looked at the town below thatseemed to sigh in its restless and troubled sleep, she looked at thedimly seen, far mountains behind which sank the stars. The cool autumnair touched her brow. “Where all is desperate, be more desperate—andpass!” She stretched out her hand to the night. “I will do it!”

  Morning broke, a sky of rose and pearl over Roche-de-Frêne. The sunrose, and the rays came into the chamber where was being nursed back tolife and strength Stephen the Marshal. Each day now saw improvement; asthe year ebbed, the vital force in him gained. Gaunt and spectre-pale,he yet left his bed each day; arm over his squire’s shoulder, walkedslowly to a great chair by the window, sat there wrapped in a furredrobe, and listened to the ocean of sound that now was Roche-de-Frêne.Sometimes the ocean had only a murmuring voice, and sometimes for longhours it raged in storm. Stephen prayed for patience and from minuteto minute sent page and squire for news. This morn dawned in quiet;yesterday, all day there had been storm. The sun gilded the courtbeneath and the chapel front, built at angles with the great pile inwhich he was lodged. He could hear the chanting of the mass. Thatwas ended, the sunshine strengthened, somewhere a trumpet was blown.Stephen prayed again for patience, and despatched his squire Bertranfor authentic tidings. Bertran went, but presently returned, having metwithout a page sent by the princess. She would know of Lord Stephen’shealth this morn, and if he felt strength for a visit from her and sometalk of importance. Stephen sent answer that he wished for no greatercordial.

  Audiart came, with her Maeut, who, with the squires and the old nurse,waited in a small ante-room. That which the princess had to say wantedno auditors other than those whom she chose—and for this matter shewould choose but few. Stephen, gaunt and drained of blood, stood togreet her, would not sit until she had taken the chair they had placed.

  She looked at him very kindly. “Lord Stephen, much would I give to seethe old Stephen here—”

  “Ah, God, madam!” said Stephen, “not here would you see him, but outthere where they fight for Roche-de-Frêne.”

  “Aye, that is true!”

  “I shall soon be there, my Lady Audiart—a log here no longer!”

  “Maître Arnaut tells me that. I talked with him before coming here. Hesays that yet a few days, and you might take command.”

  “As I will, princess, if you give it me—But no man lives who canbetter your leading!”

  “My leading or another’s, Stephen, our case is desperate. The deerfeels the breath of the hounds.... Now listen to me, and let notstrangeness startle your mind. At the brink of no further going, thenit is that we fare forth and go further!”

  The sun rode higher by an hour before she left Stephen the Marshal.She left him a flushed, half-greatly-rallied, half-foreboding man, butone wholly servant of her and of Roche-de-Frêne’s great need,—one,too, who could follow mind with mind, and accept daring, when daringpromised results, with simplicity.

  From this chamber she went to the castle-hall and found there, awaitingher, Thibaut Canteleu, for whom she had sent. She took him upon thedais, her attendants clustering at the lower end of the hall, out ofhearing.

  “Thibaut,” she said, “there is good hope that in a week Lord Stephenmay take again his generalship.”

  “I am glad, my lady,” answered Thibaut, “for Lord Stephen, for ’tisweary lying ill in time of war. But we have had as good a general!”

  “That is as may be.... Thibaut, do you see victory for Roche-de-Frêne?”

  Thibaut uttered a short groan. “My Lady Audiart, the road is dark—”

  “I think that if we strain to the uttermost we may hold out yet twomonths.”

  “Montmaure could never do it, but for Duke Richard’s men!”

  “Just.... Thibaut, Thibaut, now listen to me, and when you have heard,speak not loudly! If this is done, it must slip through in silence.”

  She spoke on for some moments, her voice low but full of expression,her eyes upon the mayor. She ended, “And I well believe that you canand will hold the town until there is seen what comes—”

  Thibaut drew a deep breath. “My Lady Audiart, trust us, we will!” Hisblack eyes snapped, a laugh passed like a wave across his face thatgrew ruddier. “By Peter and Paul! Now and again in life I myself havecome to places where I must see further than my fellows and dig deeper,or they and I would perish!—This is a bold thing that you propose, mylady, and may go to the left instead of the right! Aye! without doubtFaint-Heart would say, ‘You follow marsh-fire and trust weight to astraw!’”

  “Yes.... In the story of things what seemed a beam has been found to bea straw, and what seemed a straw a beam. May it be
so this time!... Nowwhat we have talked of rests until Lord Stephen takes command.”

  A week of days and nights went by, filled with a bitter fighting. ButStephen the Marshal grew stronger, like the old iron soldier and goodgeneral that he was. Arrived an evening when he came into hall, walkingwithout help, and though gaunt and pale so nearly himself that allrejoiced. The next day he mounted horse and rode beside the princessthrough the town to the eastern gate where was now the fiercestfighting. The knights, the men-at-arms and citizens cried him welcome.That night Audiart held full council. When morning came it was heraldedthrough Roche-de-Frêne that the princess had made Lord Stephen generalagain.

  Audiart listened to the trumpets, then with Maeut she went into thecastle garden and found there Alazais and Guida. She sat beside Alazaisbeneath a tree whereon hung yet the gold leaves, and taking herstepdame’s hand, caressed it. “Come siege, go siege!” she said, “yourest so beauteous—!”

  “Audiart! Audiart! when is anxiousness, misery, and fear going to end?And now they say that you command that every table alike be given lessof food—”

  The princess stroked the other’s wrist, smiling upon her. “You knowthat you do not wish bread taken from another to be laid in your hand!”

  “No, I do not wish that, but—” The tears fell from Alazais’s eyes.“What have we done that the world should turn so black?”

  “Be of cheer!” said Audiart. “The black may lighten!” She laughed ather step-dame, and at Guida’s melancholy look. “In these earthy waysloss has its boundary stone no less than gain! Who knows but thatto-day we turn?—Come close, Guida and Maeut, for I have somethingto say to you three, and want no other—no, not a sparrow—to hearme!” She spoke on, in a low voice, with occasionally an aidinggesture, Maeut kindling quickly, the other two incredulous, objecting,resisting, then, at last, catching, too, at the straw....

  That morning Montmaure did not push to the assault. Viewed from thewalls, it seemed that the two counts made changes in the disposition ofthe besieging host. Here battalions were drawing closer, here spreadingfan-wise.

  Invest as closely as Montmaure might, Roche-de-Frêne had gotten outnow a man and now a man, with a cry for aid to the King of France, toToulouse and others. One had returned with King Philip’s assurancethat he would aid if he could, but harassed by revolts nearer Paris,could not. Other messengers had made no return....

  To-day there seemed a redrawing of the investing lines, a lifting andpitching afresh of encampments. Roche-de-Frêne, beginning to knowhunger, saw, too, long forage trains come laden to its enemy. Watching,Roche-de-Frêne thought justly that Montmaure might be meaning to restfor a time from assaults in which he lost heavily, heavily—to restfrom assaults and lean upon starvation of his foe. Famine, famine washis ally—famine and Aquitaine! It was the last that made him able toserve himself with the first.

  Garin, going toward the castle from the town’s eastern gate, heard inthe high street the trumpet and the cadenced notice that Stephen theMarshal, healed of his wound, again commanded for the princess. Thepeople cried, “Long live the princess! Long live the marshal!” then,silent or in talk, turned to the many-headed business of the day. Infront of Garin rose the great mass of the cathedral, wonderful againstthe November sky.

  As he came into the place before it, there met him Pierol, the trustedpage of the princess. “Sir Garin de Castel-Noir, I was sent in searchof you! The princess wishes to speak with you—No, not this hour! Twohours from now, within the White Tower.”

  He was gone. “Go you, also,” said Garin to the squire Rainier. “Orwait for me here by the door. I will spend in the church one hour ofthose two.”

  He went from out the autumn sunshine into the dusk of the hugeinterior. An altar-lamp burned, a star, and light in long shaftsfell from the jewel-hued windows. The pillars soared and upheld theglorious roof, and all beneath was rich, dim and solemn. A few figuresknelt or stood in nave or aisle. Garin moved to where he could see thecolumns brought by Gaucelm of the Star from the land beyond the seaand set before the chapel of Our Lady of Roche-de-Frêne. He knelt,then, crossing himself, rose and took his seat at the base of a greatsupporting pillar. He rested his arm upon his knee, his chin uponhis hand, and studied the pavement. He had not passed the columnsand knelt before the Virgin of Roche-de-Frêne, because in his heartwas an impulse of hostility. He did not name it, made haste to forceit into limbo, hastened to bow his head and murmur an _Ave Maria_.Nevertheless it had made itself felt. This was the gemmed, azure-cladQueen who wanted marriage between Montmaure and the Princess ofRoche-de-Frêne!... But doubtless it was not she—Father Eustace hadslandered her—a lying monk, Heaven knew, was no such rarity! Garincame back into her court, but still he did not kneel, and, stretchinghis arms to her, beg her favour and some sign thereof, as he had doneeight years ago. He was a graver man now, a deeper poet.

  An inner strife racked him, sitting there at the base of thepillar, emotion divided against itself, a mind bewildered betweenirreconcilables, a spirit abashed before its own inconstancy. Onemoment it was abashed, the very next it cried, “_But I am constant!_”Then came mere aching effort to bring old order out of this pulsingchaos, and then, that slipping, an unreasoning, blind and deaf,poignant and rich, half bliss, half pain—emotions so fused that therewas no separating them, no questioning or revolt. He sat there as in aworld harmonized—then, little by little, reformed itself the discord,the question, the passionate self-reproval for disloyalty and thebewildering answering cry from some mist-wreathed, distance-sunkenshore, “_I am not disloyal!_” and then the query of the mind, “_How canthat be?_” Garin buried his face in his hands, sat moveless so in thecathedral dusk. Within, there was vision, though not yet was it deepenough. He was seeing the years through which he had sung to the FairGoal.

  The time went by. He dropped his hands, rose, and after a genuflectionleft the great church. Without, Rainier joined him. Together theyclimbed the steepening street, crossed the castle moat, and enteringbetween Lion and Red Towers, went to the building that lodged DePanemonde and Castel-Noir. Thence, presently, fresh of person andattire, he came alone, and alone crossed courts and went through roomsand echoing passage-ways and by the castle garden until he came to theWhite Tower.