THE VENETIAN

That year Saladin was victor in Syria and the Kingdom of Jerusalem fell. Many a baron, knight, and footman was slain that year in the land over the sea! Those who could escape left that place of burning heat and Paynim victory. Another crusade they might go, but here and now was downfall! A part survived and reached their homes, and a part perished at sea, or in shipwreck on strange shores.

Sir Eudes de Panemonde, an old man now and bent, came home to his castle and fief. With him came his son, Sir Aimar, a beautiful and brave knight, all bronzed with the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. With them came a third knight, bronzed too by the sun, with fame on his shield and crest. He had been Garin de Castel-Noir, and then Garin Rogier, and now, for five years, Sir Garin of the Golden Island,—Garin de l’lsle d’Or,—known in the land over the sea for exploits of an extreme, an imaginative daring, and also for the songs he made and sang in Frank and English fortress halls. He was knight and famed knight, and three emirs’ ransoms stood between him and the chill of poverty. Two esquires served him. He had horses,—better could not be bought in Syria! He had brought off in safety men-at-arms in his pay. He was known for wearing over his mail a surcoat of deep blue, and on the breast embroidered a bird with outstretched wings. He was all bronzed and rightly lean of face and frame, strongly-knit, adventurous, courteous, could be gay and could be melancholy, showed not his entire depth, but let the inner fountain, darkly pure, still send up jets and hues of being. He and Sir Aimar were brothers-in-arms, were Damon and Pythias. He was, also, true poet. Many a song had he made since that first song, made where he lay upon a boundary stone, by the stream that flowed past Castel-Noir and on to Our Lady in Egypt. And always he sang of one whom he named the Fair Goal. That name was known in Crusaders’ cities, in tents that were pitched upon desert sands. He himself was known and welcomed. Comrade-Frank or Englishman or German cried with pleasure, “Here comes the singer!”—or “the lover!” as might be.

In the castle of Panemonde there was welcome and feasting. The strong kinsman had not proved weak in fidelity, but had held afar from the fief eagle and kite, while at home the Lady of Panemonde, a small, fair, determined woman, had administered with great ability castle, village, and the fields that fed both. Here were Crusaders who, unlike enough to many, had not come home impoverished, or to lands ravaged and debt-ridden. And Sir Eudes’s old sin was now wiped out of the memory of God, and he could sit in the sun and wait death with a peaceful mind. And Sir Aimar was so beautiful and strong a knight that his suzerain, the Count of Toulouse, would be sure to give him opportunity by which he might win fame for Panemonde beyond that which he had brought from across the sea. Garin de l’Isle d’Or, too, looked for service that should win him land and castle.

Toulouse! No sooner had their ship come to port than they learned that Aquitaine warred against Toulouse, Duke Richard claiming the latter through his mother, Duchess Eleanor. But hardly had they taken the road to Panemonde before they heard the news that Richard and Count Raymond had made in some sort peace, due, perhaps, to hold, and perhaps due not to hold. Coming to Panemonde they found that the lady there had furnished Count Raymond the spears that the fief owed, and that, the fighting over, some of these had returned. Some would never return.

They feasted and rejoiced at Panemonde, giving and hearing news. Kindred and friends came about the restored from over the sea. There were feasts in the hall, exercises in the tilting yard, hunting and singing. They carried in procession to the monastery church a vial of water from the Jordan, a hands-breadth of silk from the bliaut of Joseph of Arimathea. They gave holiday to the serfs and remitted a tax. The early summer days went highly and well.

Sir Aimar had a sister, Aigletta, a fair, rose-cheeked, dark-eyed lady. She was fain to hear stories of Saladin from her brother, and she liked to listen to the lute and the deep, rich and sweet voice of Garin of the Golden Island. He sang when she asked it, seated in hall or in garden, or perhaps resting by the little stream without the castle wall, where you looked across the bridge of one arch to the eastward-stretching highway. Oftenest Garin sang other men’s songs, but when she asked it, he sang his own. Aigletta listened with a pensive look. Her brother found her alone one day in the garden, a white rose by her knee, her smooth cheek resting upon her hand. He sat beside her.

“Sister, ladies more than two or three have wished that Sir Garin would sing not so much for them as of them! And still he sings only of the Fair Goal.”

“Who is she?” asked Aigletta.

“Who knows? He knows not himself. But she is as a hedge of white roses to keep him from other loves. So I would not have you, sister, scorch the finger-tip of your heart!”

“I? Not I!” said Aigletta. “I dip my finger-tips in cool, running water!—But, truly, to sing for years of a lady whom he knows not by sight—!”

“A poet can do even that,” said Aimar. “And it is not true that he hath never seen her. He saw her once, where she rested at an abbey, though I am not sure that he saw her face. But now for years he hath made her famous—loving her, or loving the love of her.”

“By my faith!” said Aigletta. “Truly a poet finds roses where others feel snow!—Well, I am no thief to take away a lady’s knight! And, perhaps, as you say, fair brother, I could not do it.”

“I think that you could not, fair sister. His Fair Goal has become to him as air and light, streaming through the house of being.”

They had not been long at Panemonde when they had news that eastward of Toulouse the Count of Montmaure made bitter war against Roche-de-FrÊne, and that Aquitaine greatly helped Montmaure, while King Philip, distracted by quarrels nearer home, sent to the aid of Roche-de-FrÊne but a single company of spears. Now, traditionally, Toulouse was friendly to Roche-de-FrÊne, but Toulouse was weary of war, and had made pact with Duke Richard. Moreover Toulouse had present trouble with a spreading heresy and Holy Church’s disfavour. Panemonde heard that Montmaure made very grim war.

For Sir Garin and Sir Aimar the future pushed its head above the present’s rich repose. When war swung his iron bell knights must hearken—not the old knight, ready now for rest from war, for contemplation of a Heaven where that bell lay broken—but the young men, the inheritors of wrath. Aimar wished to ride to Toulouse, to Count Raymond. Garin of the Golden Island would not show restlessness in the house of his benefactor, but those who were awake saw him pacing at dawn the castle wall, or leaning against the battlement, watching the rose in the east.

Once he had assured Sir Eudes and his son that he was of Limousin. But ere he received knighthood he had told plainly his birthplace and home, name, and fealty, and that anger of Montmaure against him. In the land beyond the sea much of the past had drifted toward remoteness, many degrees of experience coming between it and him. But now, early and late, he began to think of Castel-Noir and of Foulque—Foulque who had heard naught of him since that night in which they had parted, beneath the old cypress. The cypress itself rose before him, and the thought of Sicart and Jean. Paladin might be living. Tower and crag and wood, the stream that slipped through the wood—he wished to see them. Not only Castel-Noir—even Raimbaut’s half-ruinous hold—even Raimbaut the Six-fingered himself. Garin half laughed at the thought of the giant. And he wished to follow down that stream again—to see again the boundary stone of Our Lady of Egypt—to find again that little lawn with the cedar, plane, and poplar—to touch again that carved seat, so near the laurels....

He rose from his bed and, while the morning star was still shining, went down the stair and crossing the court mounted the castle wall. Here he rested arms against the stone and gazed at the east where was now a little colour.

Montmaure warred against Roche-de-FrÊne. Raimbaut held from Montmaure, but Montmaure, for that fief, was vassal to Roche-de-FrÊne. They said that the war was bitter and far-flung. Garin knew not if Raimbaut, carrying with him Castel-Noir, clave to Montmaure, or to the overlord that was Roche-de-FrÊne. There sprang within him wish and belief that it was to Roche-de-FrÊne. Montmaure! His lips moved, his brow darkened. In imagination he wrestled again with Jaufre de Montmaure. Then, athwart that mood, came again, and stronger than before, a great longing to follow once more that southward-slipping stream, and to hear the nightingale in the covert, and to come again through the laurels to the lawn, the cedar, and the chair of stone. The east was like a rose. “I will tarry no longer!” said Garin.

Five days later he and Aimar rode away toward Toulouse. Behind them, well mounted, rode their esquires, bearing lance and shield; behind these, threescore mounted men. The two knights kneeled for Sir Eudes’s blessing, they kissed the cheek of the Lady of Panemonde and of the dark-eyed Aigletta; they went away like a piece of the summer, and all the castle out to see them go. Here was the bridge, here the road, here a lime tree that Garin remembered, but in an autumn dress. Now it was green and palest gold, fragrant, murmurous with bees. Farther, and here was the calvary, and the way that branched to church and monastery. Wherever there were people, they stopped in their tracks upon the road, or in the fields dropped their work and stood to see the knights go by, with the goodly men behind them. The sky was dazzling blue, the world drenched with light and heat.

They meant to lodge that night in the town to which Garin had come with the scholar, and where first he had seen the cross taken. Reaching it before sunset, they looked up at its castle. But said Garin, “Let us find some hostel! It is not in my mind to-night to be questioned of the Holy Land, made to talk and sing.”

Aimar agreed; could tell, too, that anciently there was here a famous inn. Passing through the town gate, they came into streets where the folk abroad and at door and window turned at the sound of the clattering hoofs, gazed at the well-appointed troop, and made free comment. All the place was bathed in a red light.

“There are many heretics in this town,” said Aimar. “Catharists or bons hommes—men of Albi, as they are now called. The strange thing is that they seem very gentle, good people! I remember one who came to Panemonde the year before we took the cross. He sat beneath the great oak and talked to any who would listen as sweetly as if Our Lady had sent him down from Heaven! I wondered—Some of the people took up stones to stone him, but I would not let him be hurt, and he went away. I wondered—”

Garin’s squire, Rainier, had been sent ahead to the inn, and now rode back to meet them. “Sirs, a Venetian merchant-lord and his people possess the house! But I have caught one fair chamber from the Italian’s clutch and the hostess promises good supper and soon. For the men, the next street hath the Olive Tree and the Sheaf and Sickle.”

They came to the great inn, a low, capacious building with a courtyard, and in a corner of this a spacious arbour overrun by a grape-vine. It was sunset. The knights and their squires dismounted, and a sumpter mule with its load was brought from the rear. Men came from the inn stable and took away the horses. Orders as to the morning start having been given, the troop from Panemonde trotted off, down an unpaved lane, to the lesser hostels. The hostess appeared, a woman of great size with a face as genial as the sun. She poured forth words as to preËmpted quarters, regrets, admirations, welcomes, hints that they were as well off here as at the castle where the lord was healing him of a grisly wound, and the lady had yesterday been brought to bed of a woman-child. Then she herself marshalled the knights, the squire Rainier following, to a chamber reasonably large and clean. Maids brought basins and ewers of water. Rainier busied himself with squire’s duties. He, too, looked to knighthood, somewhere in the future. The bright evening light came through the window. Below, under the grape-arbour, serving-men placed boards on trestles, and furnished forth a table.

The inn followed a good fashion, and on these warm and long days spread supper in the largest, most open hall that might be. When they descended to the court it was to find the Venetian great merchant already at table, sitting with two others above the salt. He was a lordly person, dressed in prune-coloured cendal, breathing potencies of travel and trade. In his air were Venice and her doges, the equal sea and the flavour of gold.

He greeted the two knights courteously, and they returned his greeting. They took their places, the squire below them. Supper went well, with the hum of life around the arbour, and the sky’s warm tint showing between twisted branches of the vine. When hunger was satisfied, they talked. They who spent years in the East came back to Europe with certain Saracenic touches of conduct and manner that to such as the Venetian told at least part of their history. He began at once to speak of cities beyond the sea—of Jaffa, Tripoli, Edessa, Aleppo, Damascus. In turn Garin and Aimar questioned him of Venice, paved with the sea.

When they had eaten, they washed and dried their hands. Serving-men took away the dishes, the boards and trestles. The arbour was left, a cool and pleasant place, with a table whereon was set wine of the country, with the summer stars brightening overhead, and a vagrant wind lifting the vine leaves. They tarried under the arbour, drinking the red wine and talking now of matters nearer at hand than was Venice or Damascus. Around was the hum of the town, of the long, warm evening settling into night. Out from the inn door came voices of the inn people. The hostess was rating some idle man or maid. “May Aquitaine take you—!”

The Venetian, it seemed, was on his way to Barcelona, had travelled yesterday from the city of Toulouse. He had left Venice the past winter, and in the interest of that sea-queen and her trade had been in many towns and a guest of many courts. Of late, war, blazing forth, had disarranged his plans, preoccupied his hosts. He was in a most ill humour with this warring.

“Fair sirs, I look not that you should believe me, but one day it will be found that war is the name of the general foe! For what, say I, is the mind given to you?” He drank his wine. “Now the Count of Montmaure wars against the Prince of Roche-de-FrÊne! In Montmaure trade is broken on the wheel. In Roche-de-FrÊne she is burned at the stake.” He tapped the wine-cup with his fingers. “Trade is the true ship—War is the pirate!”

Garin spoke. “I have hours in which I should believe that you were right. Love, too, and the finer thought are broken on the wheel! But it is the way of the world, and we are knights who go to war.”

“My lord of Montmaure fights,” said the chant, “like a fiend! Or so the Count of Toulouse told me. The country of Roche-de-FrÊne is harried and wasted. Now he goes about to besiege the town and the castle.”

“We have been home no great while,” said Aimar, “and our castle is in a corner of the land and away from hearing how the wind blows elsewhere.”

The Venetian sipped his wine, then set down the cup. “I spent a week, before this war broke forth, in the castle of Roche-de-FrÊne. I found the prince a wise man, with for wife the most beauteous lady my eyes have gazed upon!”

“Aye!” said Garin. “Alazais the Fair, men called her.”

“Just. Alazais the Fair.—While I was in the castle came the Count of Montmaure’s demand for the prince’s daughter for wife to his son. Certes, I think,” said the merchant, “that he knew she would be refused him! Cause of war, or mask-reason for a meant war—now they war.”

“We heard something of all this,” said Aimar.

Garin spoke again. He was back in mind at Castel-Noir. “That is the Princess Audiart. I remember their saying that she was ugly and unlike others—like a changeling. They were praying for a son to Prince Gaucelm.”

“She is not a changeling,” answered the Venetian. “She is a very wise lady, though she is not fair as is her step-dame. I saw her sit beside the Prince in council and the people love her. Now, they say, she is as brave as a lion. Pardieu! If I were knight, or knight-errant—”

“Are they hard pressed?” Garin spoke, his hands before him on the table.

“So ’tis said. Montmaure has gathered a host and Richard of Aquitaine gives to Count Jaufre another as great. At Toulouse there was much talk of the matter.”

The Venetian emptied his glass, looked up at the stars, and, the day’s travel having been wearying, thought of his bed. Presently he rose, his people with him, said a courteous good night and quitted the arbour.

The two knights waited a little longer, sitting in silence. Then they, too, left the arbour, and, Rainier attending, went to the chamber that had been given. Here sleep came soon. But in the first light of morning Sir Aimar, waking, saw Garin standing, half-clothed, at the window.

“Aimar,” said Garin, “you must to Toulouse, for Count Raymond is your suzerain and Sir Eudes hath your promise that you follow no adventure until you have received lord’s leave. But for me that makes too long delay. I will ride on to Roche-de-FrÊne.”

Sir Aimar sat upon the side of the bed. “I thought last eve that I saw the knight-errant look forth from your eye! Will you rescue this ugly princess?”

“Ugly or fair, she is a lady in distress—and Jaufre de Montmaure does her wrong.... Her father is my liege lord. I have had a vision too, of my brother Foulque, hard bestead. I cannot tarry to go about by Toulouse.”

Aimar agreed to that. “My father hath my promise.—But I will follow you as soon as I may. Pardieu! If what the Venetian said be true, every knight will be welcome!”

“I think that it was true.—Ha!” said Garin to himself, “I see again the autumn wood, and Jaufre de Montmaure who beats to her knees that herd-girl!”

The two knights, Garin and Aimar, left the town together, in the brightness of the morning. But a mile or two beyond the walls their ways parted. Their followers were divided between them—each had now two esquires and more than a score of men-at-arms. Each small troop came in line behind its leader. Then the two knights, dismounting, embraced. Each commended the other to the care of the Mother of God. They made a rendezvous; they would meet again, brothers-in-arms, as soon as might be. They remounted—each troop cried farewell to the other—Sir Aimar and those with him turned aside into the way to Toulouse.

Sir Garin waited without movement until a great screen of poplars came between him and his brother knight. Then he spoke to his courser, and with his men behind him, began to pursue the road to the country of his birth. As he travelled he saw in fancy, coming toward him on this road, Garin de Castel-Noir clad in a serf’s dress, fleeing from Montmaure, in his heart and brain hopes and fears, a welling-up of poesy, and the image of his lady whom he named the Fair Goal. Garin of the Golden Island, older by nigh eight years of time and a world of experience, rich, massy, and intricate, smiled on that other Garin and saw how far he had to travel—but without finding as yet the Fair Goal!