Love Among the Ruins Part 42

"Ah, sire," she said to him one morning, as she thrust the flowers she had gathered in the garden into a brazen bowl, "I am heavy at heart.

Who shall pity me?"

He turned towards her on his cus.h.i.+ons with a smile that was not prophetic of the tomb.

"Do I weary you?"

"Ah no, not that."

"Why then are you sad?"

She held up a white hand in the gloom of the room, her hair falling like a black cloud upon her bosom.

"Listen," she said to him.

"I am not deaf."

"The thunder of war."

"Well, well, my heart, should I fear it?"

"It is I who fear."

"Ah," he said, taking her hand into his bosom, "put such fears far from you. We shall not end this year in dust."

A week pa.s.sed and the man was on the walls again, bold and ruddy as a youthful Jove. Seven days had gone, swelling with their hours the great concourse in the meadows. Pikes had sprouted on the hills like glistening corn, to roll and merge into the girding barrier of steel.

The disloyal south had gathered to Fulviac before Gambrevault like dust in a dry corner in the month of March. A great host teemed betwixt the river and the cliffs. Through all, the rack and thunder of the siege went on, drowning the sea's voice, flinging a storm-cloud over the stubborn walls. In Gambrevault men looked grim, and muttered of succour and the armies of the King.

Yet Flavian was content. He had taken a transcendent spirit into his soul; he lived to music; drank love and chivalry like nectar from the G.o.ds. The woman's nearness made each hour a chalice of gold. He possessed her red heart, looked deep into her eyes, put her slim hands into his bosom. Her voice haunted him like music out of heaven. He was a dreamer, a Lotos-eater, whose brain seemed laden with all the perfumes of the East. Ready was he to drain the purple wine of life even to the dregs, and to find death in the cup if the Fates so willed it.

And Fulviac?

War had held a poniard at his throat, turning him to the truth with the threat of steel. Grim and implacable, he stalked the meadows, bending his brows upon the towers of Gambrevault. This girl of the woods was no more a dream to him, but supple love, ardent flesh, blood-red reality.

Lean, leering thoughts taunted the lascivious fears within his brain.

His moods were silent yet tempestuous. Gambrevault mocked him.

Vengeance burnt in his palm like a globe of molten iron.

His dogged temper roused his captains to strenuous debate. Fifty thousand men were idle before the place, and the siege dragged like a homily. Their insinuations were strong and strident. The countryside was emptying its broad larder; Malgo and G.o.damar of the Fens were marching from east and west. Ten thousand men could leaguer Gambrevault. It behoved Fulviac to pluck up his spears and march on Lauretia, proud city of the King.

For a season Fulviac was stubborn as Gambrevault itself. His yellow eyes glittered, and he tossed back his lion's mane from off his forehead.

"Till the place is ours," so ran his dogma, "I stir never a foot. See to it, sirs, we will put these skulkers to the sword."

His captains were strenuous in retort.

"You mar the cause," said Sforza over the council-board, thin-lipped and subtle.

"Give me ten thousand men," quoth Colgran the free-lance, "by my bones I will take the place and bring the Maid out scatheless."

Prosper the Priest put in his plea.

"You are our torch," he said, "our beacon. Malgo is on the march; G.o.damar has ma.s.sed behind the creeks of Thorney Isle. The country waits for you. Leave Gambrevault to Colgran."

And again the free-lance made his oath.

"Give me ten thousand men," quoth he, "by Peter's blood the place shall tumble in a month."

That same evening, as a last justification of his stubborn will, Fulviac sent forward a trumpeter under a white flag to parley with the besieged.

The herald's company drew to the walls as the sun sank over the sea, setting the black towers in a splendour as of fire. Fulviac's troops were under arms in the meadows, their pikes glittering with sinister meaning into the purple of the coming night. The Lord of Gambrevault, in full harness, met the white flag, his knights round him, a crescent of steel.

Fulviac's trumpeter proclaimed his terms. They were insolently simple, surrender absolute with the mere blessings of life and limb, a dungeon for the lords, a proffer of traitorous service to the men. Yeoland the Saint was to be sent forth scatheless. The castle was to be garrisoned and held by the rebels.

Flavian laughed at the bluff insolence of the demand.

"Ha, sirs," he said, "we are the King's men here. Get you gone before my gate. Say to yonder traitor in the meadows, 'We quail not before scullions and at the frowns of cooks.'"

Thus, under the red canopy of the warring west, ended the parley at the gate of Gambrevault. The white flag tripped back behind the trenches; the castle trumpets blew a fanfare to grace its flight. Yeoland the Saint heard it, and her lamp of hope burnt dim.

That night Fulviac paced the meadows, his eyes scanning the black ma.s.s upon the cliffs. Dark as was his humour, reason ruled him at the climax, powerful to extort the truth. Primaeval instincts were strong in him, yet he put them back that hour out of his heart. Robust and vigorous, he trampled pa.s.sion under foot. At dawn his orders went forth to the captains and the council.

"Colgran shall command. Ten thousand men shall serve him. Let him storm the place, grant no terms, spare Yeoland the Maid alone. Let him butcher the garrison, and let the ruin rot. When all have been put to the sword, let him march and join me before the city of Lauretia."

x.x.xIII

So Fulviac with his host pa.s.sed northwards from Gambrevault, leaving Colgran and his ten thousand to guard the trenches. Flavian saw the black columns curl away over the green slopes, their pikes glittering against the blue fringe of the horizon, their banners blowing to the breeze. The red pavilion stood no longer in the meadows; the man on the black horse rode no more behind the barricades. Ominous was the marching of the host over the hills, a prophecy of many battles before the King's men could succour Gambrevault.

The gate-house stood in ruins, a shattered pile of masonry barriering the causeway from the meadows. The outer curtain wall on the north had been pierced between two towers; the stone-work crumbled fast, opening a gradual breach to the rebel sea dammed behind the trenches. The battlements were rent and ruinous; many a turret gaped and tottered.

Still the bombards thundered, hurling their salvos of shot against the place, belching flame even through the night, while the arms of the great slings toiled like giant hands in the dark.

As for the girl Yeoland, her joy was dim and flickering, mocked with constant prophecies of woe. The sounds of the siege haunted her perpetually. Shafts wailed and whistled, bombards roared, the walls reeked and cracked. A corner in the garden under the yew walk was the single nook left her open to the blue hope of heaven. The clamour of the leaguer woke a hundred echoes in her heart. Above all shone the man's strong face and pa.s.sionate eyes; above the moon, the stars, the blue vault of day, death spread his sable wings, a cloud of gloom.

On the sixteenth day of the siege, Colgran made an a.s.sault in force upon the ruins of the gate-house. Despite its chaotic state, Flavian clung to the ruin, and held the stormers at bay. Thrice Colgran's rebels advanced to the attack, and came hand-to-hand with the defenders over the crumbling piles of stone; thrice they were beaten back and driven to retreat upon their trenches. Colgran renounced the gate-house as impregnable; the slings and bombards were turned upon the outer wall to widen the breach already made therein.

It was plain enough even to Yeoland that the siege was bearing slowly yet surely against Gambrevault. More than half a month had pa.s.sed, and still no succouring spears shone upon the hills, no sail upon the sea.

Poor food and summer heat, the crowding of the garrison had opened a gate to fever and disease. She saw the stern and moody faces of the soldiery, their loyalty that took fresh and hectic fire from the courage of their lord. She saw the broken walls and ruined battlements, and heard the rebels shouting in their trenches.

As the man's peril grew more real and significant, a fear more vehement entered into her heart. Sleep left her; she began to look white and weary, with dark shadows under her eyes. The man's warm youth accused her like a tree that should soon be smitten by the axe. His fine heroism was a veritable scourge, making the future full of discords, a charnel-house glimmering with bleached bones. She began to know how closely their lives were mingled, even as wine in a cup of gold. He was lord and husband to her in the spirit. Her red heart quaked for him like the s.h.i.+vering petals of an autumn rose.

On the day of the a.s.sault upon the gate-house, he came back to her wounded in the arm and shoulder. He was faint, but brave and even merry. She would suffer none to come in to him, as he sat in a carved chair in her room that opened on the garden. The sight of blood when harness and gamboison were taken from the caked wounds quickened her fears into a fever of self-torture. She bathed the wounds and dressed them with fragrant oil and linen. Twilight filled the room, and it was not till her tears fell upon his hand that the man found that she was weeping.

He drew her towards him with sudden great tenderness, as she knelt and looked into his face. Her eyes swam with tears, her lips quivered.

"My life, why do you weep?"

She started away from him with sudden strength, and stood by the window, trembling.