THE SIEGE

Montmaure had wooden towers drawn even with the walls of Roche-de-FrÊne. From the tower-heads they strove to throw bridges across, grapple them to the battlements, send over them—a continuing stream—the starkest fighters, beat down the wall’s defenders, send the stream leaping down into the town itself. Elsewhere, under cover of huge shielding structures, Montmaure mined, burrowing in the earth beneath the opposed defences, striving to bring stone and mortar down in ruin, make a breach whereby to enter. Montmaure had Greek fire, and engines of power to cast the flaming stuff into the town. He had great catapults which sent stones with something of the force of cannon-balls, and battering rams which shook the city gates. He had archers and crossbowmen who from high-built platforms sent their shafts in 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 to watch, and to spare from fighting and watching. He ravaged the country and had food.

Roche-de-FrÊne fought with the wooden towers, threw down the grappling hooks and the bridges, thrust the stream back, broken and shattered into spray. It sallied forth against those who mined, beat down and set afire the shielding structures, drove from the field the sappers at the walls. It had some store of Greek fire and used it; it had engines of power and great catapults that sent stones with something of the force of cannon-balls against those towers and scaffolds of the foe. Roche-de-FrÊne had archers and crossbowmen, none better, who from walls and gate-towers sent shafts in level flights against the high platforms, 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,—and men whose trade was not war, but who now turned warrior, burghers fighting for their liberties, their home and their work. But it had not the numbers that had Montmaure. It knew double-tides of fighting and watching. It had deep wells and an immemorially strong-flowing spring. But food was failing—failing fast! It had heroism of man, woman, and child. But hunger and watching and battle at last must wear the highest spirit 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 had passed since that short truce and meeting with Montmaure had laid shadows beneath the eyes of the Princess Audiart.... To-day had seen heavy fighting and slaughter. Now it was night, and Audiart in the White Tower knelt within the window and looked forth upon the castle buildings, courts, towers, and walls, and upon the roofs of the town, and the cathedral tower, and further to where showed red light of Montmaure’s vast encampment. She had been, through the day, upon the walls.... Her head sank upon her arms. “Jesu, and Mother Mary, and whoever is pitiful, I, too, am weary of slaughter! A better way—a better way—”

She stayed so for some minutes; then, lifting her head, gazed again into the night. “Who has the key?” she said. “Duke Richard has the key.” Presently she stood up, rested hands upon the stone sill, drew a deep breath. Her lips parted, her glance swept the wide prospect, then lifted to the stars. “If I have wit enough and courage enough—that might be—” A colour crept into her face. “Was never a right way seemed not at first most hazardous and strange—so much more used are we to the wrong ways!”

She looked at the clusters of stars, she looked at the town below that seemed to sigh in its restless and troubled sleep, she looked at the dimly seen, far mountains behind which sank the stars. The cool autumn air touched her brow. “Where all is desperate, be more desperate—and pass!” 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 sun rose, and the rays came into the chamber where was being nursed back to life and strength Stephen the Marshal. Each day now saw improvement; as the 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, walked slowly to a great chair by the window, sat there wrapped in a furred robe, and listened to the ocean of sound that now was Roche-de-FrÊne. Sometimes the ocean had only a murmuring voice, and sometimes for long hours it raged in storm. Stephen prayed for patience and from minute to minute sent page and squire for news. This morn dawned in quiet; yesterday, all day there had been storm. The sun gilded the court beneath and the chapel front, built at angles with the great pile in which he was lodged. He could hear the chanting of the mass. That was ended, the sunshine strengthened, somewhere a trumpet was blown. Stephen prayed again for patience, and despatched his squire Bertran for authentic tidings. Bertran went, but presently returned, having met without a page sent by the princess. She would know of Lord Stephen’s health this morn, and if he felt strength for a visit from her and some talk of importance. Stephen sent answer that he wished for no greater cordial.

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 wanted no auditors other than those whom she chose—and for this matter she would choose but few. Stephen, gaunt and drained of blood, stood to greet 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 see the old Stephen here—”

“Ah, God, madam!” said Stephen, “not here would you see him, but out there 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. He says that yet a few days, and you might take command.”

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

“My leading or another’s, Stephen, our case is desperate. The deer feels the breath of the hounds.... Now listen to me, and let not strangeness startle your mind. At the brink of no further going, then it 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, but one wholly servant of her and of Roche-de-FrÊne’s great need,—one, too, who could follow mind with mind, and accept daring, when daring promised results, with simplicity.

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

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

“I am glad, my lady,” answered Thibaut, “for Lord Stephen, for ’tis weary 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 two months.”

“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 can and will hold the town until there is seen what comes—”

Thibaut drew a deep breath. “My Lady Audiart, trust us, we will!” His black eyes snapped, a laugh passed like a wave across his face that grew ruddier. “By Peter and Paul! Now and again in life I myself have come 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, my lady, and may go to the left instead of the right! Aye! without doubt Faint-Heart would say, ‘You follow marsh-fire and trust weight to a straw!’”

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

A week of days and nights went by, filled with a bitter fighting. But Stephen the Marshal grew stronger, like the old iron soldier and good general that he was. Arrived an evening when he came into hall, walking without help, and though gaunt and pale so nearly himself that all rejoiced. The next day he mounted horse and rode beside the princess through the town to the eastern gate where was now the fiercest fighting. The knights, the men-at-arms and citizens cried him welcome. That night Audiart held full council. When morning came it was heralded through Roche-de-FrÊne that the princess had made Lord Stephen general again.

Audiart listened to the trumpets, then with Maeut she went into the castle garden and found there Alazais and Guida. She sat beside Alazais beneath a tree whereon hung yet the gold leaves, and taking her stepdame’s hand, caressed it. “Come siege, go siege!” she said, “you rest 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 less of food—”

The princess stroked the other’s wrist, smiling upon her. “You know that 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 at her step-dame, and at Guida’s melancholy look. “In these earthy ways loss has its boundary stone no less than gain! Who knows but that to-day we turn?—Come close, Guida and Maeut, for I have something to say to you three, and want no other—no, not a sparrow—to hear me!” She spoke on, in a low voice, with occasionally an aiding gesture, 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 the walls, it seemed that the two counts made changes in the disposition of the besieging host. Here battalions were drawing closer, here spreading fan-wise.

Invest as closely as Montmaure might, Roche-de-FrÊne had gotten out now a man and now a man, with a cry for aid to the King of France, to Toulouse and others. One had returned with King Philip’s assurance that 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 and pitching afresh of encampments. Roche-de-FrÊne, beginning to know hunger, saw, too, long forage trains come laden to its enemy. Watching, Roche-de-FrÊne thought justly that Montmaure might be meaning to rest for a time from assaults in which he lost heavily, heavily—to rest from assaults and lean upon starvation of his foe. Famine, famine was his ally—famine and Aquitaine! It was the last that made him able to serve himself with the first.

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

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

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

He went from out the autumn sunshine into the dusk of the huge interior. An altar-lamp burned, a star, and light in long shafts fell from the jewel-hued windows. The pillars soared and upheld the glorious roof, and all beneath was rich, dim and solemn. A few figures knelt or stood in nave or aisle. Garin moved to where he could see the columns brought by Gaucelm of the Star from the land beyond the sea and 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 great supporting pillar. He rested his arm upon his knee, his chin upon his hand, and studied the pavement. He had not passed the columns and knelt before the Virgin of Roche-de-FrÊne, because in his heart was an impulse of hostility. He did not name it, made haste to force it into limbo, hastened to bow his head and murmur an Ave Maria. Nevertheless it had made itself felt. This was the gemmed, azure-clad Queen who wanted marriage between Montmaure and the Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne!... But doubtless it was not she—Father Eustace had slandered her—a lying monk, Heaven knew, was no such rarity! Garin came back into her court, but still he did not kneel, and, stretching his arms to her, beg her favour and some sign thereof, as he had done eight years ago. He was a graver man now, a deeper poet.

An inner strife racked him, sitting there at the base of the pillar, emotion divided against itself, a mind bewildered between irreconcilables, a spirit abashed before its own inconstancy. One moment it was abashed, the very next it cried, “But I am constant!” Then came mere aching effort to bring old order out of this pulsing chaos, and then, that slipping, an unreasoning, blind and deaf, poignant and rich, half bliss, half pain—emotions so fused that there was no separating them, no questioning or revolt. He sat there as in a world harmonized—then, little by little, reformed itself the discord, the question, the passionate self-reproval for disloyalty and the bewildering answering cry from some mist-wreathed, distance-sunken shore, “I am not disloyal!” and then the query of the mind, “How can that be?” Garin buried his face in his hands, sat moveless so in the cathedral dusk. Within, there was vision, though not yet was it deep enough. He was seeing the years through which he had sung to the Fair Goal.

The time went by. He dropped his hands, rose, and after a genuflection left the great church. Without, Rainier joined him. Together they climbed the steepening street, crossed the castle moat, and entering between Lion and Red Towers, went to the building that lodged De Panemonde and Castel-Noir. Thence, presently, fresh of person and attire, he came alone, and alone crossed courts and went through rooms and echoing passage-ways and by the castle garden until he came to the White Tower.