CHAPTER IV

There the King, the wise-hearted, ... the mighty king. LAMENT OF ODDRUN.

On the picturesque Garonne bank, beneath the Roman walls of Casseneuil, lay the camp of the Frankish host. Since Easter the levies of blue-eyed Allemanni and dark-eyed Aquitanians and Bretons had been pouring in to swell the ranks.

For a mile around, the fertile hills were dotted with tents and booths. Overhead stretched a canopy of blue haze, the smoke of the countless fires. Long lines of ox-wains trailed in from all parts of the land; great droves of cattle browsed in the meadows; and water craft of all sizes sailed to and fro on the Lot and the Garonne, or lay moored along the banks while busy sailors shifted cargo. The larger vessels were from Bordeaux and the sea; others plied between Casseneuil and Toulouse, where a smaller host--Burgundians and Lombards, and the Goths and Gallo-Romans of Septimania and Provincia--were being mustered by Barnard, the king's uncle, to invade the Saracen country by way of Narbonne. The grandson of Karl the Hammer was gathering his might to strike the pagans such another blow as had shattered their host on the plains of Touraine.

The royal pavilion stood in the heart of the camp, close to the river's bank. Above its peak floated the gold-bright folds of the three-forked standard, and the scores of messengers that came and went told that Karl the King was busied with the affairs of his vast realm. Those who passed in saw first a striking assemblage of the king's liegemen,--long-robed priests, counts in full war-gear, and court officials, ornate with silks and jewels. Here were warriors who had seen the fall of Pavia and helped to hew down the Irminsul; bishops and abbots who ruled ecclesiastical estates, the revenues of which were little less than princely; _missi dominici_,--those trusty liegemen who bore the king's will to outland lords, or journeyed through their appointed ridings to bring justice for all against the petty tyrannies of count and bishop and judge.

Yet though the pavilion held within it many of the most famous men of the greatest realm since the fall of the Western Empire, the new-comer would have been certain to pass by all alike with a hasty glance and turn half reverently to the low dais where Karl the King sat on his oaken throne. Aside from his jewelled sword-belt, there was little of gold or gems about the massive figure; but beneath the sapphires and holy nail of the Lombard crown the grey eyes of the great Frank gazed out with calm power. War-counts and priests alike bowed before that glance; for in mind, as in body, Karl was master of them all.

The last of the _missi_ called into service had been despatched to inspect the four quarters of the realm, and the king was now in earnest consultation with two Moslem envoys. The contrast between the lean figure and patriarchal beard of the older Saracen and the blond, massive-limbed Frank was as great as that between the king's jerkin and cross-thonged stockings and the envoy's green turban and flowing white burnous. Yet such of the bystanders as were accustomed to look beneath mere outward appearance saw in the Arab sheik's dark face an expression strikingly like that which gave such dignity to the fresh ruddy countenance of the king. Not all the wide difference in race and dress and years could hide the stamp of power with which Nature had marked the features of the two.

The other Saracen, who, like the king, appeared to be scarcely three or four years past thirty, showed warrior training in every pose and feature; but a covert sneer lurked beneath his impassive smile, and from eyes that blinked like those of a bird of prey he shot quick, evil glances at the surrounding Franks.

Presently there entered the pavilion a thick-set, tow-haired warrior, with red, beer-bloated features, who jostled his way to the front without wasting breath in apologies for his rudeness. As he approached the dais the younger Saracen glanced at him, and, with a seemingly careless gesture, touched the hilt of his scimetar. He turned away at once to join in the parting salaams to the king, while the boorish warrior returned to the pavilion's entrance. As he came to a halt near the Grand Doorward, he pointed outside, his low forehead creased in a savage scowl.

"Here comes the duke now, and in choice company," he grumbled. "The Merwing shall learn that Rudulf's daughter is not for a Vascon, though he be twice over the rightful heir of Clovis."

"Does Count Hardrat speak of the Vascon Wolf?" inquired the doorward, half heeding.

"Vascon fox!" rejoined Hardrat. The jest seemed to ease his ill-humor, and he turned his gaze to the duke's beautiful companion.

The girl was young,--certainly not more than seventeen,--but of all the queen's maidens, none could lay claim to so many suitors. Among her own people and the other blond Germans beyond the Rhine she would have been considered too dark for perfect beauty; but, North Rhine or South Rhine, few men could have looked at her without a quickened pulse-beat. There was allurement in every line of her softly moulded features, in the rich bloom of her olive cheeks, and in the silky meshes of her gold-brown hair. Envious rivals might say that her eyes were over-narrow for beauty, and her lips of too vivid a scarlet. None the less, the ardent warriors and courtiers, and more than one mitred churchman, longed for the kiss of that enticing mouth, and willingly gave themselves over to the spell of the bewitching eyes with their strangely shifting tints of blue and green.

Such was Fastrada, the daughter of Count Rudulf, youngest, fairest, and most sought for among the queen's bower-maidens.

It was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he strolled with her up to the pavilion Duke Lupus kept his small eyes fixed upon the girl in an amorous stare. Near the entrance he paused and sighed regretfully.

"Here is the king's tent, maiden," he said. "I wish it had been more distant. At your side the way was all too short. I am more than repaid that I left my horse at the villa gate for my suite to bring after."

The girl looked up, open-eyed, into the Vascon's sensual face, and replied with a simplicity that to a casual observer would have appeared almost naive: "The noble Lupus has done me great honor by his escort. Our gracious queen will not soon forget such a favor."

"And the queen's most charming maiden--?"

Fastrada bent her head to hide a smile, but her voice was very soft: "Who could forget a kindness from the Duke of the Vascons,--from the rightful heir of Clovis?"

Lupus started, and glanced hastily before him into the pavilion. He had often boasted of his descent from that long line of lustful, bloody, indolent Merwing kings, the last of whom had been deposed and his crown seized by Pepin the Short; but all of those boasts had been uttered when the usurper's son held court on the farther side of Aquitania. His relief was heartfelt when he perceived that only one other than himself had heard the dangerous compliment. Hardrat met his furtive glance with a meaning smile and came forward to bow before Fastrada.

"Saints grant I may be of service to our dame's fairest maiden," he said.

The girl lowered her eyes demurely.

"I bear a message to our lord king," she replied.

"Then the Christian maiden must wait for heathen dogs."

Fastrada looked up at her two suitors with an arch smile, but only Lupus perceived the trace of malice that lurked in the corners of the scarlet lips.

"Do not be angry for me, Count Hardrat," she said. "It is a pleasure to wait in company such as that with which I am favored."

Both lords smiled at the flattery; but while the duke repaid the compliment in graceful phrases, Hardrat glared at his rival with jealous suspicion. From beneath her modestly drooping lashes Fastrada watched how the Thuringian's brow lowered under the arrogant stare of the duke. Her pulse quickened, and the shifting tints deepened in her downcast eyes. But the war-count checked his threatened outburst, and so put an end to the sport.

Petulantly the girl turned to the entrance, only to look about in appeal to the Vascon.

"_Ai_, lord duke," she exclaimed; "who are these heathen? I can see only their strange headgear."

"They are Saracen counts, the pagan allies of our Most Christian King," answered Hardrat, and he smiled ironically. "But look,--their audience comes to an end. I can now lead you in before his Majesty."

"I give thanks," murmured Fastrada, but her eyes were fixed upon the envoys. The officials near the entrance had drawn apart, and the white-robed Saracens, having salaamed themselves to a respectful distance from the dais of the mighty Afranj sultan, were completing their exit in a more dignified manner. The tall leader came out like a veritable Sheik el Islam, his firm tread, erect frame, and eagle glance giving the lie to the whiteness of his hair and flowing beard.

Fastrada slipped in front for a closer view of the grand old warrior, but was met by the leering gaze of the younger envoy behind him. Before his stare the girl shrank back, blushing with offended pride. Yet she looked eagerly around after the Saracen leader, and her changeful eyes sparkled as she exclaimed: "There goes a hero! Would that he were young! We 'd see a warrior such as few Franks could withstand."

"Strange words for a daughter of Thuringia," replied Lupus; "yet, none the less, they are very fitting. Al Arabi is a count of great fame among his people. He has held many high offices, and though no longer Count of Saragossa, he is friend and chief councillor of Al Huseyn, the vali who succeeded him. Old as he is, even now he can strike a heavy blow."

"He is a raven-feeder!" growled Count Hardrat. "Nor is Vali Kasim a babe. The old man has a stout son-in-law. Also, he owns a silent tongue and does not bicker with his friends. Come now, maiden, if you would see the king."

The girl smiled, and bowed both to Lupus and to her red-faced countryman. Then, with hands clasped before her and eyes demurely downcast, she followed the latter through the brilliant assemblage to the royal presence. Karl, though dictating a memorandum to Abbot Fulrad, the white-haired Keeper of the Great Seal, paused at once and nodded pleasantly to Hardrat.

"You bring a maiden from Hildegarde," he observed in a voice clear and strong but strangely shrill for so massive a body. "I am mistaken if it is not the daughter of our faithful Rudulf. I trust that she bears good tidings."

Fastrada bowed low before the dais. "Our gracious dame bade me bring word to your Majesty that her pain has eased. She enjoys good health again, though she put away the leech's drugs."

"As well--as well! I 'd wager a little fasting against the best of leeches. But, indeed, these are good tidings, and they come by the mouth of a fair emissary," replied Karl, his gaze lingering on the soft beauty of the girl's face and form. "It is a dusty path to the gates, and the herald of our queen should be spared the pains of walking it twice in a day. Let her delay her return. There will be a seat in our barge when we go to the noon-meal."

Fastrada bowed and withdrew, half awed, into the midst of the assemblage. Yet the admiration in the king's glance had by no means escaped her. Her cheeks glowed with pride at thought of the look and of his kindly tone. After royalty, the homage of lesser men lacked flavor, and the girl listened to the eager greetings of the court officials with an indifferent bearing. Of what value the blandishments of these sleek courtiers and petty counts when heroes such as the famous Roland and Hardrat were no less eager for her favor? And now the king himself had looked at her with far other than a cold eye, though Queen Hildegarde was yet held to be the most beautiful woman in the realm.

With true feminine perversity, the girl turned from all others and set about the task of pleasing a lank, dour-faced official, the only one in the pavilion who seemed altogether indifferent to her charms. The man met her advances with a sardonic smile, and gave a curt response to her greeting; while his pale-blue eyes turned away from her soft beauty to fix their cold stare on the approaching figure of Duke Lupus.

"The Merwing is ill named," he muttered in his beard, struck by the same thought that had prompted Hardrat's jest. "He should be called Fox, not Wolf,--a cunning fox! He will bear watching."

"What is my Lord Anselm pleased to say?" asked Fastrada. "He has the look which he wears when he sits on the judgment-seat, dooming the luckless offenders."

"Maidens should chatter and spin, and leave weightier matters to those who have wit," answered the judge, dryly.

"Alas, then, for the maidens, if all men agree with the Count of the Palace!" sighed Fastrada; and she drew back in mock sorrow.

Anselm paid no heed to the alluring play. His attention was fixed upon the Duke of the Vascons.

Lupus advanced with an arrogance that won him little favor among the proud Franks. But Karl smiled, and even extended his hand for the salute when the duke would have bent to kiss his knee.

"With joy we see again our faithful friend," he said. "Not satisfied with swearing allegiance the second time, he brings us needed supplies with a bountiful hand. It is well this fair Southland is held for us by so trusty a liegeman."

"My lord king is pleased to be gracious," replied Lupus, quickly. "If I have won his indulgence, I now beg leave to ask a favor."

"Speak. Anything I can rightfully give shall be allowed you."

"It is no small matter, your Majesty; the insolent Bishop of Rome has stricken the mitre from the head of my kinsman Thierry."

Karl started and frowned.

"Alter your asking, lord duke," he answered. "I cannot set aside so just a judgment. There were charges and a fair trial for the Bishop of Bordeaux. He has failed to clear himself on a single count; drunkenness, strife, licentiousness,--all were proved."

"Slander, sire!--malicious slander!" cried the duke, his passion overleaping all caution. "My kinsman is persecuted for his lineage! Few priests of his rank but wassail and brawl unrebuked. As for the third charge, strangest of all in a realm whose king--"

"Silence!" roared Karl; and he towered up on the dais like an angry lion. "Has the kinsman of Hunold and Waifre twice sworn allegiance to doubt the justice of his king and Holy Church? I, the king, sent Pope Hadrian command for the trial. It is enough that dukes and counts trample the common folk and wallow in the troughs of their sodden vices. At the least, I will scourge the swine from God's Church. By the King of Heaven! when I have swept the pagan Saracens into the sea I will cleanse the household of my kingdom,--from duke to deacon! Thierry has lost his mitre; let him repent and walk upright, lest worse come upon him."

Stunned, humiliated, livid with impotent anger, the haughty Merwing shrank back from before the son of Pepin, and hastened to quit the assemblage that had witnessed his shame. Most of the Franks met his black glances with ready frowns; but Hardrat, the Thuringian count, could not conceal his pleasure at the turn of events.

"All goes well!" he chuckled. "The fox is shrewdly nipped. He 'll stop at nothing now. Rage will melt all his frosty caution. The others are with us, heart and hand, and that missive to Saxon Land by this time should have rid us--"

The conclusion of the Thuringian's half-muttered words was lost in a terrific blare of trumpets and war-horns that sent the alarm ringing to every corner of the Frankish camp.

Within the pavilion all was instantly struggle and confusion. Swords flashed overhead, and the assemblage surged from side to side as the war-counts sought to push out from the press of officials and priests. But Karl the King walked swiftly through the parting crowd, his face serene, his sword unsheathed. The warriors rushed after him, weapon in hand.