THE FAIR GOAL

Messengers, heralds, bearing decisive and peremptory speech, went from Richard, Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine, to the Counts of Montmaure. Others were despatched to the leaders of the host of Aquitaine before Roche-de-FrÊne. Duke Richard was at peace with Roche-de-FrÊne; let that host therefore direct no blow against its lord’s ally! Instead, let it forthwith detach itself from Montmaure, withdraw at once from the princedom of Roche-de-FrÊne, and, returned within its own boundaries, go each man to his own home. On your faith and obedience. So the heralds to the leaders of the aid from Aquitaine.

To the Counts of Montmaure the heralds, declaring themselves true heart, mouth, and speech of Duke Richard, delivered peremptory summons to desist from this war. An they did not, it would be held to them for revolt from Richard their suzerain.... The heralds with their train rode fast and rode far.

The Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne awaited in AngoulÊme the earliest fruit of this faring. She waited at first at the Abbey of the Fountain, but presently in the town as Duke Richard’s guest. A great house was given her, with all comfort and service. Ladies came to wait upon her; she had seneschal, chamberlain and page. If she would go abroad she had palfreys with their grooms; in her hall waited knights to attend her. AngoulÊme and its castle and the court about Duke Richard buzzed of her presence in this place, of what adventure had been hers to reach it, and of the attitude now of Richard Lion-Heart. They did not know detail of her adventure, but they knew that it had taken courage. They knew that Richard had in him power to turn squarely. They did not know all the whys and wherefores, depths and reasons of the right angle that made in AngoulÊme a whirling cloud of speculation, but as a fact they accepted it and proceeded with their own adaptation. The party that, for reasons personal to itself, had backed Montmaure, wagering in effect upon the permanency of his influence with Richard, took its discomforture as enforced surgery and found it wisdom’s part to profess healing. The party that had been hostile to Montmaure found a clearing day and walked with satisfaction in the sun. Those—not many—who had stood between the two, found usual cautious pleasure in changing scenery and event. The most in AngoulÊme could give nine days to wonder. The Princess Audiart stayed with them no greatly longer time.

Duke Richard came to her house in state. In state she returned the visit, was met by him at the castle gate. He would give a joust in her honour, and afterward a contest of troubadours. She sat beside him on the dais, and watched all with a gentle face, a still and inscrutable look. Beauvoisin was of those who tourneyed, and among the knights whom he brought into the lists rode Garin of the Black Castle, who did most well and was given great observance. The next day, when there was song, Richard called for Garin of the Golden Island, naming him famed knight, famed poet, famed bird of song, bird that sang from itself. Garin came before the dais, took from a jongleur his lute.

“Sir Garin of the Golden Island,” said Richard, “sing Within its heart the nightingale—”

He sang—a golden song sung greatly.

“Ah!” sighed Richard Lion-Heart, and bade him sing When in my dreams thou risest like a star. “Ah God!” said Richard. “Some are kings one way, and some another! Sing now and lastly to-day, Fair Goal.”

Garin sang. All AngoulÊme that might gather in the great hall, in the galleries, in the court and passages without, listened with parted lips. Richard listened, and in some sort he may have felt what the singer felt of goals beyond goals, of glories beyond the loveliness and glories of symbols, of immortal union behind, beneath, above the sweetness of an earthly fact.

One was present who did feel what the singer felt, and that was the princess who sat as still as if she were carven there.... Garin of the Golden Island won the golden falcon that was the duke’s prize.

A week went by. A second began to drift into the past, winter day by winter day. Messengers now rode into AngoulÊme and through the castle gates, and were brought to Duke Richard. They came from the lords of Aquitaine encamped before Roche-de-FrÊne, and they bore tidings of obedience. The host helped no longer in this war. When the messengers departed it was in act of lifting from all its encampments; even now it would be withdrawing from the lands of Roche-de-FrÊne. Richard sent this word in state to the princess in AngoulÊme.

A day later there spurred at dusk into AngoulÊme a cloaked and hooded lord, behind him three or four, knights or squires. The following morn the first won through to Richard’s presence. The two were alone together a considerable time. Those who waited without the room heard rise and fall of voices.... At last came the lion’s note in Richard’s voice, but it changed and fell away. He was speaking now with an icy reasonableness. That passed to a very still, pointed utterance with silences between.... The other made passionate answer. Richard’s speech took a sternness and energy which in him marked the lion sublimated. Then a bell was struck; the attendants, when they opened the door, had a glimpse of a red-gold head and a working face, hook-nosed, with a scar upon its cheek.

Montmaure left AngoulÊme; he rode in savagery and bitterness, his spur reddening the side of his horse, the men with him labouring after. He rode, whether by day or by eve, in a hot night of his own. Red sparks flashed through it, and each showed something he did not wish to see. Now it was Richard whom he doubted if ever he could regain, and now it was Richard’s aid withdrawing—withdrawn—from the plain by Roche-de-FrÊne. Cap-du-Loup—Cap-du-Loup would follow Aquitaine, might even now gustily have whirled away! Jaufre’s spirit whispered of other allies who might follow. The glare showed him the force of Montmaure that was left, spread thinly before Roche-de-FrÊne. It showed Roche-de-FrÊne, as last he had seen it, over his shoulder, when he rode with fury and passion to work in AngoulÊme a counter-miracle,—as he would see it now again,—Roche-de-FrÊne grim and dauntless, huge giant seated on a giant rock. Jaufre, whelmed in his night-time, shook with its immensity of tempest. The storm brought forth lights of its own. They showed him Montmaure—Montmaure also in motion—cowering forth, unwinning, from this war. They showed him Audiart the princess. When he came to AngoulÊme he had learned there who had wrought the miracle.... An inner light that was not red or born of storm trembled suddenly, far above the great fens and marshes and hot, wild currents. That quality in her that had wrought the miracle—It was but a point, a gleam, but Jaufre had seen white light. The storm closed in upon him, but he had looked into a higher order, knew now that it was there. His huge, lower being writhed, felt the space above it.

Hours passed, days passed. He came through country which he had charred, back to Montmaure’s tents. The dragon lay shrunken; it could no longer wholly enfold Roche-de-FrÊne. Jaufre found his father’s red pavilion, entered.

Count Savaric started up. “Ha! you rode fast! Speak out! Is it good or bad?”

“Bad,” said Jaufre, and faintly, faintly knew that it was good.

The days went by in AngoulÊme and there came again the heralds who had been sent to Montmaure. They brought Count Savaric’s and Count Jaufre’s submission to the will of their suzerain—since no other could be done and sunshine be kept to grow in! They brought news of the lifting of the siege of Roche-de-FrÊne. On the morrow came one who had been in Roche-de-FrÊne. He had to tell of joy that overflowed.

The Princess Audiart left the court of Richard Lion-Heart for her own land and capital town. She went with a great escort which Richard would give her. The danger now from the dragon that had ravaged her country lay only in the scattered drops of venom that might be encountered,—wild bands, Free Companies, wandering about, ripe for mischief, not yet sunk back into their first lairs. She and Duke Richard made pact of amity between his house and hers, and she went from AngoulÊme on a grey day, beneath a cloud-roof that promised snow. At the Abbey of the Fountain she dismounted, entered to say farewell to the Abbess Madeleine and to kneel for Church’s blessing. She had ladies now in her train. These entered with her, and two knights, the Count of Beauvoisin and Sir Garin of the Black Castle. Forth and upon the road, Beauvoisin rode at her right. He had the duke’s signet, lord’s power to bear her safely through every territory that owed allegiance to Richard.

The snow fell, but the air was not cold. They rode through the afternoon wrapped in a veil of large white flakes. In the twilight they reached a fair-sized town where great and rich preparation had been made for them. The next day also the snow fell, and they fared forward through a white country. Then the snow ceased, the clouds faded and a great heaven of blue vaulted the world. The sun shone and melted the snow, there came a breath as of the early spring.

In the middle of the day they pitched the princess’s pavilion in the lee of a hill or in some purple wood. They built a fire for her and her ladies and, a distance away, a campfire. Dinner was cooked and served; rest was taken, then camp was broken and they rode on again. Time and route were spaced so that at eve they entered town or village or castle gate. Beauvoisin had sent horsemen ahead—when the princess and her company entered, they found room and cheer with varying pomp of welcome. The night passed, in the morning stately adieux were made; they travelled on.

Riding east and south, they came now into and crossed fiefs that held from Montmaure who held from Aquitaine. Beauvoisin kept hawk-watch and all knights rode with a warrior mien. Care was taken where the camp should be made. Among those sent ahead to town or castle were poursuivants who made formal proclamation of Duke Richard’s mind.—But though they saw many who had been among the invaders of Roche-de-FrÊne, and though the country wore a scowling and forbidding aspect,—where it did not wear an aspect relieved and complaisant,—they made transit without open or secret hindrance. They came nearer, nearer to borders of Roche-de-FrÊne. In clear and gentle weather the princess entered that fief which had been held by Raimbaut the Six-fingered.

This was a ravaged region indeed, and there was no town here for sleeping in and no great castle that stood. When the sun was low in the western sky they set the princess’s pavilion, and one for her ladies, at the edge of a wood. A murmuring stream went by; there were two great pine trees and the fire that was lighted made bronze pillars of their trunks. Something in them brought into Audiart’s mind the Palestine pillars before the shrine of Our Lady of Roche-de-FrÊne.

The sun was a golden ball, close to the horizon. Wrapped in her mantle, she sat on a stone by the fire and watched it. Her ladies, perceiving that she wished to be alone, kept within the pavilions. Beauvoisin and his knights sat or reclined about their fire farther down the stream. Farther yet a third great fire blazed for the squires and men-at-arms. Upon a jutting mound a knight and a squire sat their horses, motionless as statues, watching that naught of ill came near the pavilions.

One upon the bank of the stream drew farther from the knights’ fire and nearer to that of the princess, then stood where she might see him. She turned her head as if she felt him there.

“Come to the fire, Sir Garin,” she said.

Garin came. “My Lady Audiart, may I speak? I have a favour to beg.”

She nodded her head. “What do you wish, Sir Garin?”

Garin stood before her, and the light played over and about him. “We are on land that Raimbaut the Six-fingered held, whose squire I was. Not many leagues from this wood is Castel-Noir, where I was born and where my brother, if it be that he yet lives, abides. I would see him again, and I would rest with him for a time and help him bring our fief back to well-being and well-doing.—What I ask, my Lady Audiart, is that in the morning I may turn aside to Castel-Noir and rest there.”

The princess sat very still upon the stone. The golden sun had slipped to half an orb; wood and hill stretched dark, the voice of the stream changed key. Audiart seemed to ponder that request. Her hand shaded her face. At last, “We have word that ere we reach the Convent of Our Lady in Egypt there will meet us a great company of our own lords and knights. So, with them and with our friends here, we are to make glittering entry into Roche-de-FrÊne.... I do not prize the glitter, but so is the custom, and so will it be done. Now if I have wrought much for Roche-de-FrÊne, I know not, but I am glad. But if I have done aught, you have done it, too, for I think that I could not have reached Duke Richard without you. That is known now by others, and will be more fully known.... Will you not ride still to Roche-de-FrÊne and take your share of what sober triumph is preparing?”

“Do you bid me do so, my Lady Audiart?”

“I do not bid you. I will for you to do according to your own will.”

“Then I will not go now to Roche-de-FrÊne, but I will go to Castel-Noir.”

The princess sat with her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. She sat very still, her eyes upon the winter glow behind the winter woods. “As you will, Garin of the Golden Island,” she said at last. Her voice had in it light and shadow. She sat still and Garin stood as still, by the fire. All around them was its light and the light in the sky that made a bright dusk.

He spoke. “The Convent of Our Lady in Egypt. Martinmas, eight years ago, I was in Roche-de-FrÊne. I heard Bishop Ugo preach and I knelt in the church before Our Lady of Roche-de-FrÊne. Then I went to the inn for my horse. There, passers-by asked me if I was for the feast-day jousts and revels in the castle lists. I said No, I could not stay. Then they said that there sat to judge the contest the Princess Alazais, and beside her, the Princess Audiart. I had no reason to think them mistaken. Were they right, or were they wrong? Were you there in Roche-de-FrÊne?”

“Martinmas, eight years ago?—No, I was not in Roche-de-FrÊne, though I came back to the castle very soon. I was at Our Lady in Egypt.”

“Ah God!” said Garin with strong emotion. “How beautiful are Thy circles that Thou drawest!”

She looked at him with parted lips. “Now, I will ask a question! I wearied, that autumn, of nuns’ ways and waiting ladies’ ways and my own ways. One day I said, ‘I will go be a shepherdess and taste the true earth!’” A smile hovered. “Faith! the experiment was short!—Now, my question.—Being a shepherdess, I was like to taste shepherdess’s fare in this so knightly world. Then came by a true knight, though his dress and estate were those of a squire.—My question:—I asked him, that day, ‘Where is your home?’ He answered, that squire, and I thought that he told the truth,—‘I dwell by the sea, a long way from here.’—Sir Garin de Castel-Noir, that was squire to Raimbaut the Six-fingered, neither dwelling nor serving by the sea but among hills, and not far away but near at hand, tell me now and tell me truly—”

“Jael the herd, I am punished! I thought to myself, ‘I am in danger from that false knight who will certainly seek me.’”

“Ah, I see!” said the princess; and she laughed at him in scorn.

“It is an ill thing,” said Garin, “to mistrust and to lie! I make no plea, my Lady Audiart, save that I do not always so.”

“Certes, no! I believe you there.... Let it go by.... That shepherdess could not, after all, be to you for trustworthiness like your Fair Goal—”

She ceased abruptly upon the name. The colour glowed in the west, the colour played and leaped in the faggot fire, the colour quivered in their own faces. Light that was not outer light brightened in their eyes. Their frames trembled, their tissues seemed to themselves and to each other to grow fine and luminous. There had been a shock, and all the world was different.

Garin spoke. “On a Tuesday you were Jael the herd. On a Thursday, in the middle of the day, you came with your ladies to a lawn by the stream that flows by Our Lady in Egypt—the lawn of the plane, the poplar and the cedar, the stone chair beneath the cedar, and the tall thick laurels rounding all.” He was knight and poet and singer now—Garin of the Golden Island—knight and poet and singer and another besides. “A nightingale had sung me into covert there. I followed it down the stream, from grove to grove, and it sung me into covert there. The laurels were about me. I rested so close to the cedar—so close to the stone chair! One played a harp—you moved with your ladies to the water’s edge—you came up the lawn again to the three trees. You were robed in blue, my princess; your veil was long and threaded with silver and gold, and it hid your face. I never saw your face that day—nor for long years afterward! You sat in the stone chair—”

“Stop!” said the Princess Audiart. She sat perfectly still in the rich dusk. Air and countenance had a strange hush, a moment of expressionless waiting. Then uprushed the dawn. He saw the memory awaken, the wings of knowledge outstretch. “Ah, my God!” she whispered. “As I sat there, the strangest breath came over me—sense of a presence near as myself—” The rose in her face became carnation, she sprang to her feet, turned aside. The fire came between her and Garin; she paced up and down in the shadowy space between the tree-trunks that were like the Saracen pillars.

Moments passed, then she returned and stood beside the stone.

Garin bent his knee. “My Lady Audiart, you, and only you, in woman form, became to me her whom for years I have sung, naming her the Fair Goal.... I left that covert soon, going away without sound. I only saw you veiled, but all is as I have said.... But now, before I go to Castel-Noir, there is more that I would tell to you.”

“Speak at your will,” said the princess.

“Do you remember one evening in the castle garden—first upon the watch-tower, and then in the garden, and you were weary of war and all its thoughts, and bade me take Pierol’s lute and sing? I sang, and you said, ‘Sing of the Fair Goal.’ I sang—and there and then came that sense of doubleness and yet one.... It came—it made for me confusion and marvel, pain, delight. It plunged me into a mist, where for a time I wandered. After that it strengthened—strengthened—strengthened!... At first, I fought it in my mind, for I thought it disloyalty. I fought, but before this day I had ceased to fight, or to think it disloyalty. Before we came to AngoulÊme—and afterwards.... I knew not how it might be—God knoweth I knew not how it might be—but my lady whom I worshipped afar, and my princess and my liege were one! I knew that, though still I thought I saw impossibilities—They did not matter, there was something higher that dissolved impossibilities.... I saw again the Fair Goal, and my heart sang louder, and all my heart was hers as it had been, only more deeply so—more deeply so! And still it is so—still it is the same—only with the power, I think, of growing forever!” He rose, came close to her, kneeled again and put the edge of her mantle to his lips. “And now, Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne, I take my leave and go to Castel-Noir. I am knight of yours. If ever I may serve you, do you but call my name! Adieu—adieu—adieu!”

She regarded him with a great depth and beauty of look. “Adieu, now, Sir Garin of the Black Castle—Sir Garin of the Golden Island! Do you know how much there is to do in Roche-de-FrÊne—and how, for a long time, perhaps, one must think only of the people and the land that stood this war, and of all that must be builded again?... Adieu now—adieu now! Do not go from lands of Roche-de-FrÊne without my leave.”

The dark was come, the bright stars burned above the trees. There was a movement from the knights’ fire—Beauvoisin coming to the princess’s pavilions to enquire if all was well before the camp lay down to sleep.

Garin felt her clasped hands against his brow, felt her cheek close, close to his. “Go now,” she breathed. “Go now, my truest friend! What comes after winter?—Why, spring comes after winter!”