Chapter 1
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
MASTERS OF THE GUILD
By L. Lamprey
Author of “In the Days of the Guild”
Illustrated by Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis
New York
1920
CONTENTS
To Dorothy
I
PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS
Bellerophon
II
A TOURNAMENT IN THE CLOUDS
The Jesters
III
THE PUPPET PLAYERS
The Abbot's Lesson
IV
PADRAIG OF THE SCRIPTORIUM
Cap O' Rushes
V
THE TAPESTRY CHAMBER
The Castle
VI
THE FAIRIES' WELL
Lullaby of the Pict Mother
VII
THE WOLVES OF OSSORY
St. Hugh and the Birds
VIII
THE ROAD OF THE WILD SWAN
The Lances
IX
THE SWORD OF DAMASCUS
Awakening
X
FOOL'S GOLD
To Josian from Prison
XI
ARCHIATER'S DAUGHTER
New Altars
XII
COLD HARBOR
Galley Song
XIII
THE WISDOM OF THE GALLEYS
Harbor Song
XIV
SOLOMON'S SEAL
The Leprechaun
XV
BLACK MAGIC IN THE TEMPLE
The Ebbing Tide
XVI
THE END OF A PILGRIMAGE
The Crusaders
NOTES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard” Frontispiece
“'You have your choice--to remain here quietly, alive, or to remain permanently, dead'”
“'How now, Master Stephen! What foolery is this?'”
“It was the first time Padraig had seen anyone write”
“'Every inch of this linen will be covered with embroidery'” (in colors)
“''Tis the brat of a scatter-brained woman'”
“Directly in front sounded the unmistakable snarl of a wolf”
“An immense boar stumbled out and charged at Eleanor's horse”
“'Belike he got it where he's been--in the Holy Land'” (in colors)
“'I know all about your search for treasure'”
“'He called me his mouse and if I kept still I had cheese for my dinner'”
“Nothing would do but that they all should go immediately to see what had come to light”
“Andrea was at work upon the carving of the doorway”
“A siffle of indrawn breath was heard in the crowd as he carried it to the fire” (in colors)
“There was shouting and laughter in the courtyard”
DEDICATION
TO DOROTHY
O little girl who used to be, Come down the Old World road with me, And watch the galleons leaping home Deep-laden, through the rainbow foam, And the far-glimmering lances reel Where clashes battle-axe on steel, When the long shouts of triumph ring Around the banner of the King!
To elfin harps those minstrels rime Who live in Once-upon-a-Time!
In that far land of Used-to-Be, Strange folk were known to you and me,-- Mowgh and Puck, and all their kin, Launcelot, and Huckleberry Finn, Wise Talleyrand, brave Ivanhoe, Juliet, and Lear, and Prospero, Alleyne and his White Company, And trooping folk of Faerie!
People of every race and clime Are found in Once-upon-a-Time!
And in those days that used to be The gypsy wind that raced the sea Came singing of enchanted lands, Of sapphire waves on golden sands, Of wind-borne fleets that race the swallow, Of Squirrel-fairy in her hollow, Of brooklets full of scattered stars, And odorous herbs by pasture-bars
Where to the cow-bells' tinkling chime Come dreams of Once-upon-a-Time!
O little girl who used to be, The days are long in Faerie,-- Their garnered sunshine's wealth of gold No royal treasure-vault may hold. And now, as if our earth possessed Alchemy's fabled Alkahest, Our harbors blaze with jewelled light, Our air-ships wing their circling flight,
And we ourselves are in the rime That sings of Once-upon-a-Time!
I
PEIROL OF THE PIGEONS
It was a great day in Count Thibaut's castle. Every one knew that, down to the newest smallest scullery-maid. The Count had come home from England with Lady Philippa, his daughter, and there would be feasting and song and laughter for days and days and days.
Ranulph the troubadour, who had arrived in their company, was glad of a quiet hour in the garden before supper was served. He knew that he would have to sing that evening, and he wished to go over the melodies he had in mind, for he might on the spur of the moment compose new words to them. In fact a song in honor of his hostess was already in his thoughts. The very birds of the air seemed to welcome her. The warm southern winds were full of their warbling--beccafico, loriot, merle, citronelle, woodlark, nightingale,--every tree, copse and tuft of grass held a tiny minstrel. When the great gate opened to a fanfare of trumpets, from the castle walls there came the murmur of innumerable doves. A castle had its dove-cote as it had its poultry-yard or rabbit-warren, but the birds were not always so fearless or so many.
The song was nearly finished when the singer became aware that some one else was in the garden. A small boy, with serious dark eyes and a white pigeon in his arms, stood close by. Ranulph smiled a persuasive smile which few children could resist.
“And who are you, my lad?”
“Peirol, the gooseherd's boy,” the youngster replied composedly. “You're none of the family, are you?”
“Only a jongleur. You have a great many pigeons here.”
“That's why I came in when I heard you playing. Does she--Lady Philippa--like pigeons?”
“I think she does. In fact I know she does. Why?”
“Grandfather said she would not care how many pigeons were killed to make pies. Nobody really loves them much, but me. They're fond of me too.”
The boy gave a low call and a soft rush of wings was heard in every direction. Pigeons flew from tree-top, tower, parapet and gable, alighting on his head and arms until he looked like a little pigeon-tree in full bloom.
“Some of them are voyageurs,” he said, strewing salted pease for the strutting, cooing, softly crowding birds. “I'm training them every day. Some day I shall know more about pigeons than any one else in the world.”
Ranulph had some ado not to smile; the speaker was so small and the tone so assured. “Perhaps you will,” he said. “Are they as tame with others as they are with you?” “Some others,” answered Peirol gravely. “People who are patient and know how to keep still. They like you.”
A slaty-blue pigeon was already pecking at Ranulph's pointed scarlet shoe for a grain lodged there. The troubadour bent down, held out his hand, and the bird walked into it. He had played with birds often enough in his vagabond early years to know their feelings. But now a wave of merry voices broke upon the garden paths.
“Peirol,” he said, “I will see you again. I have a little plan for you and the pigeons which will, I think, give pleasure to Lady Philippa.”
One of the entertainments arranged to take place was a feast out of doors, in a woodland glade especially suited to it. Ranulph's inspiration had to do with this.
Among the guests the only stranger was Sir Gualtier (or Walter) Giffard, younger son of a Norman family. One of his ancestors had gone to England with Duke William a hundred years before, but the family had not been on good terms with later kings and its fortunes had somewhat fallen. Every one, however, spoke with respect of this knight and his elder brother, Sir Stephen, and they had been of service to Count Thibaut during his stay in England. This Giffard had never been so far south before, and he seemed to feel that he had got into some sort of enchanted realm. He was more soldier than courtier, but his eyes said a great deal. The luxurious abundance of a Provencal castle, the smooth ease of the serving, the wit and gaiety of the people, all were new to him. He had attended state banquets, but they were as unlike the entertainment here provided as was the stern simplicity of his boyhood home in Normandy, or the rough-and-tumble camp life of recent years.
The out-of-door dinner was not a hap-hazard picnic, but neither was it in the least stiff or formal. The servants went by a short cut across the meadow to prepare the tables, while knights and ladies followed the more leisurely path along the river bank. It was a walk through fairyland. The very waters were in a holiday mood. The current strayed from one side to the other, leaving clear still pools and enticing little backwaters, and singing past the elfin islets and huge overshadowing trees, like a gleeful spirit.
Lady Philippa had never looked more lovely. As the party was not to be seen on a public road, veils and wimples were discarded, and her bright brown hair, braided in two long braids, was crowned only by a circlet of gold set with pearls and emeralds. The trailing robes worn at formal dinners would also be out of place, and she wore a bliaut or outer robe of her favorite rose-colored silk, a wide border of gold embroidery giving it weight enough to make it hang in graceful lines. The sleeves were loose and long, the ends almost touching the hem of the gown. Under this was a violet silk robe of heavier material with bands of ermine at the neck and on the small close sleeves. Under this again the embroidered edges of a fine white linen robe could be seen at throat and wrists. The girdle was of braided violet silk, the ends weighted with amethyst and emerald ornaments. A white mantle of silk and wool, trimmed with fur of the black squirrel, and fastened under the chin with a gold button, and an embroidered alms-purse, completed the costume. The other ladies of the party were attired as carefully, and the dress of the men was as rich and brilliant as that of the women. They passed through the wavering light and shadow of the woodlands like a covey of bright-plumaged birds.
In the level open space where the feast was spread the servants had placed trestles, over which long boards were fitted. Benches covered with silken cushions served as seats. The cloth was of linen dyed scarlet in the rare Montpellier dye, and over it was spread another of white linen, embroidered in open-work squares. At each end of the table was a large silver dish, one containing a meat-pie, the other a pie made of the meat of various fowls with savory seasoning. On silver plates were slices of cold chicken and meat. Glass trays contained salad, lettuces, radishes and olives. The salt, pepper and spices were in silver and gold dishes of fanciful shapes. Here and there were crystal vases of freshly gathered roses and violets. On the corners of the table were trenchers of white bread--wastel, cocket, manchet, of fine wheaten flour,--and brown bread of barley, millet and rye. For dessert there were the spicy apples of Auvergne, Spanish oranges, raisins, figs, little sweet cakes, wine white and red, and nuts in a great carved brass dish of the finest Saracen work, with carved wood nut-crackers. Ewers and basins of decorated brass, for washing the hands after the meal, were ready. Eastern carpets and cushions, placed upon a bank under the trees, would afford a place where the company, after dining, might linger for hours, enjoying the gay give-and-take of conversation, the songs of artists who knew their art, and the constant musical undertone of winds, birds and waters. The surprise which Ranulph had planned was designed for the moment when the guests began to dally with nuts and wine, reluctant to leave the table. Some one called upon the troubadour to sing. He had counted upon this. Rising, he bowed to the Count and his daughter, and began:
“In the month of Arcady Green the summer meadows be,-- When the dawn with fingers light Lifts the curtains of the night, And from tented crimson skies Glorious doth the sun arise,-- Who are these who give him greeting, On swift wings approaching, fleeting,-- Who but birds whose carols bring Homage to their gracious King! “Lo! the Queen of Arcady From the land of Faery Gladdens our adoring eyes, Fair and gentle, sweet and wise, Her companions here on earth Love and Loyalty and Mirth! Who, the joyous tidings hearing, Fly to greet her, now appearing? Aphrodite's pigeons fleet,-- See, they gather at her feet.”
No one had heard a low clear call from the boughs of the tree overhead, or seen the figure of a small boy in a fantastic tunic of goatskins, slipping down the tree-trunk near Ranulph. As the company rose from the table the troubadour moved away a little, still thrumming his refrain, and in that moment there was a whir of sudden wings and the air was dark with pigeons. As the birds alighted Lady Philippa was surrounded by the pretty creatures, and in a graceful little speech Ranulph presented to her Peirol as a Faun, the Master of the Pigeons, who had brought them to do homage to their sovereign lady.
It was just the sort of informal pageant to delight the heart of Provence. No more dainty and captivating interlude had been seen at a festival.
There was a great deal of wonderment about the way in which the scene had been arranged, but it was really quite simple. According to the usual fashion the guests were seated on only one side of the table, the other side being left free for the servants to present the various dishes. The company faced the river, and the trees that canopied the table were behind them. Nothing, therefore, hindered Peirol from luring his pigeons to a point within hearing of his voice, and concealing himself in the thick leafage until Ranulph gave the signal for them to be brought upon the stage. Most of the afternoon was spent in watching and discussing Peirol and the pigeons.
“A pigeon has certain advantages,” observed Gualtier Giffard, as he and the troubadour, sitting a little way from the others, watched the carriers rise and circle in the air. “He need only rise high enough to see his goal,--and fly there.”
“Pity but a man might do the same,” said Ranulph lightly. The eyes of the two young men met for an instant in unspoken understanding. Under some conditions they might have felt themselves rivals. But neither the penniless younger son of a Norman house, nor a landless troubadour of Avignon, had much hope of meeting Count Thibaut's views for his only daughter.
“It would be rather absurd,” Ranulph went on, stroking the feathers of the little dun pigeon Rien-du-Tout, “for a bird to outdo a man. Perhaps some day we shall even sail the air as now we sail the seas. Picture to yourself a winged galleon with yourself at the helm--about to discover a world beyond the sunset. It is all in having faith, I tell you. Unbelief is the dragon of the ancient fables.”
The Norman smiled rather sadly. “Meanwhile,” he said, “having no flying ships and no new crusades to prove our mettle, we spend ourselves on such errands as we have, or beat the air vainly--like the pigeons. Were it not that a man owes loyalty to his house and to his King I would enlist under the piebald banner of the Templars. But my brother and I have set ourselves to win back the place that our fathers lost, and until that is done I have no errand with dragons.”
Ranulph nodded, thoughtfully. “The King would be glad of more such service,” he said. “Good fortune be with you!”
BELLEROPHON
Hail, Poet--and farewell! Our day is past, Yet may we hear new songs before we die, The chanteys of the mightiest and the last,-- The squadrons of the sky.
We knew the rhythm of myriad marching feet, Gray tossing seas that rocked the wind-whipped sail, The drumming hoofs of horses, and the beat Of stern hearts clad in mail.
But you--earth-fettered we shall watch your wings Topping the mountains, battling winds,--to dare Challenge the lammergeyer where she swings Down the long lanes of air.
And when you take the skylark for your guide, And soar straight up to sun-drenched shores of Time, Immortal singers there shall, eager-eyed, Await your new-born rhyme.
Their songs are charm-songs, a divine caress, Or torrents that no power of man could tame, Or time-hushed gardens of grave loveliness, But yours,--a leaping flame!
Hail, Poet! Yours the Dream Interpreted, Earth's haunting fairy-tale since life began,-- The Dragon of Unfaith, his magic dead, Slain by the Flying Man!
II
A TOURNAMENT IN THE CLOUDS
Alazais de Montfaucon was to be married, and had chosen her dearest friend Philippa to be maid of honor. None of her friends except Philippa had seen the bridegroom; he was an English knight, Hugh l'Estrange. He had lands on the Welsh marches, and the charming Alazais was to be carried off by him, to live among savages. This, at least, was the impression of Beatriz d'Acunha and Catalina d'Anduze, who were also to be bridesmaids. Philippa, having lived in England, looked at the matter less dolefully. Still, when all was said, it was an immense change for Alazais, and she herself declared that if any one but Hugh had proposed it she would not think of such a thing.
“We must provide you with a flock of these voyageur pigeons,” said Savaric de Marsan. “Then, when you are shut up in your stronghold with the Welsh on one side and Saxon outlaws on the other, you can appeal to your friends for help.”
Alazais laughed her pretty rippling laugh.
“The fortress is not yet built,” she said with a toss of her golden head. “We are not going to live among the heathen.”
“You men!” pouted Beatriz. “You are always thinking of battles and sieges, wars and jousting. Perhaps you would like a tournament of pigeons!”
“Why not?” queried Savaric undisturbed. “It would be highly amusing.”
“I lay my wager on Blanchette here,” said Peire d'Acunha. “She is as graceful as a lady. She shows her breeding.”
“Endurance, my friend, is what counts in a carrier,” said Bertrand d'Aiguerra. “Pere Azuli yonder will forget the miles behind him--as you forget your debts.”
“You are both wrong,” said Savaric. “It is spirit that wins. Little Sieur Rien-du-Tout, the pigeon without a pedigree, will make fools of all of you.”
The pigeon-tournament was actually planned, with much laughter and light-hearted nonsense. It was to take place at Montfaucon during the week of the wedding. Each knight should adorn his bird with his lady's colors, and the little feathered messengers were to carry love-letters written in verse. Afterward, the pigeons were all to be presented to Lady Alazais for her dovecote in the barbarous land to which she was exiled.
Pigeons were very much the fashion for a time. Dainty demoiselles preened and paced on the short sweet turf, petting and feeding the birds, and looking rather like pigeons themselves. But no one became really intimate with the carriers except Ranulph the troubadour, Lady Philippa, and Sir Gualtier Giffard, who loved them for her sake.
The guests at the castle were all going to the wedding except Ranulph and the Norman knight. Ranulph expected to accompany King Henry to England, and Gualtier Giffard had to take a report from Count Thibaut to friends in Normandy, touching certain matters of state.
Then the Count was invited to a hastily arranged banquet in a town some leagues away, where various important persons were to be guests, among them Henry Plantagenet himself. The way to Montfaucon lying in the same direction, it was decided that Alazais and her bridesmaids should return to her home under escort of the Count and his friends. When the banquet was over and the conference between Henry and his vassals in Guienne was concluded, the wedding guests would assemble at Montfaucon.
Gossip about the banquet and the conference flew like tennis-balls among the guests. It was said that one of the matters discussed would be the claim of the deposed King of Leinster, Dermot MacMurragh, who was even now at the heels of the English King, trying to interest him in a possible Norman invasion of Ireland.
“I have seen this Dermot,” said de Marsan, “and a choice group of cut-throats he had collected about him. Garin de Biterres was one of them, by the way.”
“He was always over-fond of laying wagers,” yawned d'Acunha. “He is probably betting his head on this Irish wild-goose chase.”
“I will burn a candle,” said Bertrand d'Aiguerra, “to any god of luck who will send that caitiff where he gets himself killed. If he were not one of us he would not be such a nuisance. His mercenaries will be the ruin of us. The people were touchy enough before, but now they begin to think we are all birds of the same black feather.”
“He is only half Auvergnais,” objected Savaric. “The other half is Sicilian, I believe. A man cannot be half a gentleman, can he? I will admit that Biterres desires to live like a gentleman,--according to his own ideas of one. He has not been the same man since he was taken by the Moors. He was never honest, but that seemed to warp his nature as well as his body. He learned things that it does no man any good to know.”
“Let us hope that Saint Patrick will dispose of him for the good of his Irish,” remarked Enrique de Montfaucon. “They say that the Plantagenet will do no more than give letters patent to any Norman adventurer who takes up Dermot's cause. I think he has his hands full with his own sons.”
Ranulph listened to this conversation with interest. The ill-famed leader of mercenaries had aspired to the hand of Lady Philippa while she was yet a child--and had been brusquely dismissed by her father. He lived now by hiring himself and his troops to any ruler who had a war on hand and would pay his price. In peaceful intervals they lived as they could.
The Count was talking to Gualtier Giffard about the Irish venture.
“If the Normans rule Ireland,” he observed, “your fortunes may improve. A grant of land there might be worth your while.”
The young knight met the Count's searching glance fearlessly. “I would not take it,” he answered. “Dermot lost his realm by his own fault. There is no honor in serving him.”
“Ah,” said the Count with a quizzical lift of the eyebrow, “in that case you are very right.”
Ranulph often acted as an unofficial unrecognized envoy in state matters, and it did not surprise him when he received a message from King Henry to the effect that he was to meet the monarch at Montfaucon after the conference. Peirol, who knew every mile of the country, was to take the pigeons thither for the tournament and be Ranulph's guide. It was altogether a very pleasant prospect for perfect summer weather.
By brisk riding the troubadour and his little companion reached Montfaucon late in the afternoon of the day following the departure of the Count's guests. The porter, a surly looking fellow, hesitated about admitting them, and before opening the wicket gate consulted some one within. The castle seemed to be in a somewhat disorderly state. Soldiers were playing dice by the gateway, and horses were stamping and feeding in the outer bailey. Peirol was evidently taken for the troubadour's servant, and an unkempt lad ushered them into a small room with a barred window, in one of the older towers. Ranulph was not wont to think of his own dignity, but this lack of courtesy did a little surprise him. Almost at once the youth poked his head in, without knocking, to say that the lord of the castle would see him in the great hall.
More mystified than before, Ranulph obeyed the summons, for it amounted to that. In the master's chair sat a man of about thirty, dark-skinned, with dense black hair and eyes, one leg somewhat malformed, the knee being bowed and the foot turned slightly inward. He looked the troubadour over with a sarcastic smile. Ranulph was still in riding-dress, and might have been mistaken for a joglar or wandering minstrel, calling himself by the more dignified title of troubadour or trouvere.
“I think,” began the knight in a harsh drawl, “that one can often do no better than to tell the truth, is it not so? I am the lord of this castle--for the present. Of course I could not refuse you admittance, or you might go off and spread inconvenient rumors. I must ask you therefore to accept our hospitality unquestioning, like a courteous guest. We cannot allow you to depart until we ourselves are gone. You have your choice--to remain here quietly, alive, or to remain permanently, dead.