Part 12
The two men linked their arms each round the other's body, and stood so for some seconds motionless, wedded pillars of mighty flesh. As they waited thus there came into Simon's mind the thought of the last time he had so clasped an adversary, and of his brief contact with the soft flesh of the wood-maiden, and of his unparalleled overthrow. Then the Norseman, obviously surprised by the strength of Simon's clasp, made a strenuous effort to lift Simon from his feet, and found that he might as well have attempted to lift a pillar of the Parthenon. Frank astonishment reigned in the faces of all the spectators, who had been confident that, though the Frenchman showed a sturdy fellow enough, he would be little less than a plaything in the hands of the northern Goliath. But their astonishment deepened into marvel when Simon, striving in turn with no palpable exertion of force, plucked his gigantic adversary from the ground, and, wrenching himself free from his clasp, flung Harald Haraldson heavily to the earth. The Norseman was up in an instant and ready to renew the tussle, but the duke, in a very ill humor, forbade it. This was his second discomfiture that day, and he chafed at it.
"No more," he said; "go your ways, Harald," and as the defeated northerner withdrew, the duke turned again to Simon and offered to take him into his service. Simon shook his head.
"I cannot serve two masters," he said, "and I will not leave the master I serve now."
"Whom do you serve?" the duke asked, and Simon answered:
"I serve the Prince of Eleusis."
For the second time that day the name of the Prince of Eleusis had been associated with the defeat of Duke Baldwin's wish, and it was very plain that his rage longed to interpret itself in furious speech. But the Prince of Eleusis was the conqueror of Rainouart, and under the conditions not to be spoken ill of by Rainouart's father, so swallowing his rage as well as he was able, Duke Baldwin thrust a number of gold pieces into Simon's ready fingers and stamped sulkily away in the direction of his palace, followed in discreet silence by his courtiers and his knights.
XX
THE PROMISE OF RAINOUART
When Simon of Rouen saw Argathona speeding towards him across the meadow, he stopped counting his gold pieces and turned to counting his heart-beats. With every new occasion now of seeing the girl, were it but a few minutes since a parting, his heart must needs drum the same foolish music, to his vexation, yet to his greater vexation he knew that he would not have it otherwise. He had forgotten her mad fancy of immortality; he could never forget her glorious beauty and her glorious strength, and at times the slow thought was forged in the patient stithy of his wits that if in his youth he had met such a mate, Simon of Rouen might now have shown another man than Simon the soldier of fortune with his body soiled with the world's mire and his lips stained with the world's wine. But he kept such thoughts to himself, partly because he would have found it hard to throw them into words, but chiefly because he dreaded that they might peril a friendship which he cherished as his breath. Now as the girl neared him he rose to greet her in a rapture, shovelling Duke Baldwin's gold pieces into his pouch that he might have both hands free to applaud her.
"You have done well, lad," he cried, as she came a-nigh, then hurriedly would have mended the matter, adding, "I should say, you have done well, lass."
Argathona set a finger to her lips and smiled protest.
"You must think of me as a boy, friend," she entreated; "the girl of the greenwood has forgotten her girlhood while she wears this golden gear."
Simon looked contrition for his slip.
"How in Heaven's name did you do it?" he questioned. "You are amazing strong for so slim a strip, but it takes more skill than strength to over-tumble a practised cavalier that had just upset no fewer than seven gallant gentlemen."
"I have little joy in my victory," Argathona answered, sadly, "but the thing had to be, for my lover is bewitched, and it will be hard to win him to his wits again, for as I think none can unspell him save she that has cast the spell."
"That seems a grim task," said Simon, "but in the mean time you have won his horse and armor."
"I build some hopes on that," the girl answered; "help me to disarm," and she passed into the tent, followed by Simon. Scarcely had she begun, however, to peel off her steel when a voice was heard without calling for the Prince of Eleusis. Straightway Simon went into the open, where he found the page of Rainouart at the tent's door, and the heir of Athens standing a little way apart in the meadow. The page bade Simon tell his master that Sir Rainouart, Prince of Athens, was without and desired speech with him. Simon returned to the tent and delivered Rainouart's message, whereupon Argathona bade admit him, and Simon brought Rainouart to her and left her with the young man. Rainouart's eyes were downcast, and it was plain that, strive as he might, he was dejected at his most strange, most unexpected defeat. He broached his business immediately.
"Knight of Eleusis," he began, "you have won the toss, and by the rules of the tourney you have the conqueror's right to my horse and armor. As for the armor it shall be carried to your tent, but for the steed, it was a gift to me from one whose gifts are dear to me"--he sighed a little as he spoke, and Argathona was angry with him and pitied him. "If you will let me ransom it at your hands, I think there is nothing you can ask that the treasury of the Duke of Athens cannot amply answer."
The little red flame of rage that threatened for a moment to sear the heart of Argathona was instantly drowned in a great wave of sorrow for the gallant lad so tragically beguiled. All her womanhood longed to clasp him in her arms and kiss him tenderly, and tell him the truth and her name and renew their loves. But she knew that she would speak in vain. Her clear spirit saw that his eyes were purblind, that his soul was swaddled with sorceries, and that only she who had set the spell upon him could unspell his senses. Sad and frank she addressed him:
"Fair lord, I do not think I could ever have overthrown you if you carried a true heart in your body. Somewhere, I think, some maiden calls you false."
Rainouart's brows clouded.
"It is enough to have overthrown me without finding such shameful reason for my fate. You are my conqueror, with whom it were dishonor to quarrel while my defeat is unredeemed. But when I am quit with you and a new sun reigns in heaven, I shall be very glad to give you the lie. So if you will take ransom for my charger, I pray you to name your price, and I will pay it were it all my estate and all my credit."
Argathona answered the loyal disloyal with an anguish in her voice which he did not understand, being too busy with his own humiliation.
"Prince of Athens, will you promise me by your knightly chivalry to grant me, in lieu of golden ransom for this horse you cherish so dearly, whatever favor I may pray of you?"
Rainouart stared at his antagonist with a surprise that was almost a suspicion, yet even his thickened vision could see nothing but candor in the brave face opposed to him.
"I will grant you whatever favor you may pray of me," he promised, "that is consistent with the laws of honor and the conduct of a chivalrous knight."
"Is there any one in the world," Argathona asked, "so bold as to entreat Rainouart of Athens to infringe in the least the laws of honor, or to smirch with the slightest stain the conduct of a chivalrous knight? Have I your promise?"
"I give you my promise," Rainouart declared, holding out his right hand, that Argathona clasped in hers; "it is ask and have."
"It is a little thing," said Argathona, slowly, still holding the hand of the prince, "yet it may come to carry a great meaning. All I demand of you is that when you are alone to-night with your bride, if she offer you a draught of wine to drink you do not drink it, but feign to do so, and feign to fall asleep."
The young prince looked angrily into the frank eyes that made him think, he knew not why, of forest fountains, and marvel why the thought made him sad. Suddenly a ray of light shone on his darkness, for his old memories of Esclaramonde, and of all that men and women once said of her, rekindled in the gray ashes of his enchantment, and his spirit was vexed with bewildering suspicions.
"That is a strange request," he said, "for it meddles with my lady, who has nothing to do with our parley."
"It is a request that you are bound to answer," Argathona insisted, "for, by my faith, it offends not against your chivalry. If the Lady Esclaramonde offers you to drink to-night you will not drink. She may not do so; then you are absolved. But if she do you will not drink, but you will feign to drink and you will feign to fall asleep."
"And what then, if I do this?" Rainouart asked. He felt that he must obey, he felt that Esclaramonde had someway ensnared him. He felt all this dimly, incoherently, but there was a kind of hope in his heart.
"If within a little piece of time you are not glad of your feigning," Argathona answered, "why, you may put it by and all is well, and your black horse neighs in your stable. Have I your promise?"
Her eyes were fixed intently upon his. She felt that she was struggling with the spell that numbed his real self. Her spirit commanded him to obey. He yielded to the strong influence. Bitter distrust of Esclaramonde struggled against her sorceries and justified him in entertaining the test.
"I have given you my promise," he said, gravely, "and will not gainsay it."
Argathona repeated her demand: "If the duchess offers you to drink to-night you will not drink, but will feign to do so and will feign to fall asleep."
Rainouart saluted her and passed out of the tent, and she listened to his footsteps dying away over the grass. Then she called to Simon, and told him she was full of cheer, and bade him see that the prince's horse was surrendered to his page. When Simon was gone on this errand, Argathona fell on her knees in a corner and began to cry, just for all the world as if she were human.
XXI
THE WINE OF ESCLARAMONDE
Duke Baldwin had devoted the fairest rooms in his palace to the Duchess Esclaramonde of Thebes before her arrival, when he thought of her only as a visitor whom he might--and the rumors of her encouraged the thought--persuade with no great pains to an intimacy of friendship. The best part of the left wing of the palace was consecrated to her use, and its spacious rooms that looked upon the plain of Athens were furnished and adorned in the most noble manner that the age could compass. Duke Baldwin loved to be prodigal of pleasures to others when the prodigality enforced an almost aching sense of gratitude, and probably any woman in the world, with the exception of the Lady Esclaramonde, would have felt at least a little grateful to Duke Baldwin. All that gold and silver and bronze and ivory and ebony and silks and furs and jewels could lend to make her rooms a little paradise of luxury had been done under the duke's orders by those who knew better than the burly duke how to grace the haven of a fair dame. Money that would have paid twice over the outstanding demands of the Catalan Grand Company had been squandered with a free hand to make a fitting background for the imperious beauty of the lady of Thebes. In fulsome compliment that might have been flagrant irony, the mosaic walls were hung with exquisite arras, upon which the cunning hands of many craftsmen had woven amorous images from every passionate tale of love.
All this the bluff duke had done, and done cheerfully, when his only thoughts concerning his comely visitor were of a personal nature. But when the duchess rode to his gates on that May evening, bearing his son's inanimate body with her, and, while that body still lay inanimate, told the lord of Athens that her troth was plighted to his son, Duke Baldwin's cheerfulness dwindled no whit. His palace hummed with ebullient compliance; he would have no lack of consolation, while his foolish son had done a wise thing unawares. So Duke Baldwin resigned without a sigh all thoughts of his fair Theban neighbor, save as a daughter-in-law, and chuckled inwardly at the little less than prophetic instinct which had led him to prepare so fair a nest for her homing. As for Esclaramonde, who had started upon her journey in a spirit of perfect willingness to entertain with complaisance any homage that the Duke of Athens might lay at her feet, she now readily dressed her temper to accept his paternal caresses, while she smiled significant appreciation of the duke's ostentatious care for her comfort.
On the evening of the day when the great tournament had been fought and won and lost, four of the duchess's favorite women, delicate dissolute minions, waited for their lady's coming in her dimly lit dwelling room. Amicia and Hildeletha, Yelette and Aveline, were huddled together in the alcove of the window, looking out upon the moonlit plain and listening to the sounds of revelry in the rooms below. They had left those rooms, they had left that revelry a little while agone, daintily flushed with wine, daintily prodigal of love-promises, that they might be sure that all was ready for their mistress when she rose from the royal feast. Now they were busy disentangling the imbroglio of their assignations, pitting lover against lover, and trying to remember times and places of meeting, lightly agreed to, and no less lightly forgotten or confused with other trysts.
It had been a wonderful day for the merry girls. There was the tournament in the morning with its unexpected end. Then there was the solemn ceremonial of marriage in the afternoon, when the Archbishop of Athens pronounced his benediction on the heir to the dukedom of Athens and the wondrous widow of Thebes. Then came the splendid banquet stretching through the hours. Now in a little while the bridal pair would be conducted in triumph to the duchess's apartments, and speedily thereafter Amicia and Hildeletha, Yelette and Aveline, would be free to pick their paths in pursuit of love. Meanwhile they babbled with bated breath of the duchess, and her old lord, and her many lovers, and of her fire-new groom who seemed to dwell in a dream even while he knelt at the altar. But they marvelled most over the stranger knight, the Prince of Eleusis, the victor of the lists, who came to the banquet habited in white and gold and sat between two of the fairest ladies of Duke Baldwin's court, and while he himself spoke little, listened to their chatter with a bright, indefinable smile. All the women, it seemed, thought him handsome as the day, and the men swore that he was a comely youth, and those that were nigh enough to see noted that he ate no food but fruit and drank no drink but water, and wondered how such meat could feed such vigor. Each of the gossip girls would have been glad to see the conqueror at still closer quarters, for their places at table were far from where he sat. They were experts in the points of men, and would fain have compared him with their immediate lovers. But they watched him closely, and thought that he seemed both merry and sad at the prattle of his companions, and they agreed that if Sir Rainouart kept his eyes ever upon the face of his bride, their Lady Esclaramonde shot many a glance of an admiration they knew well how to interpret at the grave face of the stranger. And therewith the talk swayed lightly back to their lady, the duchess, and the fair heads pressed together and the sweet voices chuckled over the echoes of many scandals.
Suddenly the sounds of revelry beneath them dwindled, and the minxes heard the swell of joyous music and the tread of marching feet. They sprang to their feet in haste, ready for obeisance, ready for service. The mirthful music and the marching feet came nearer and yet nearer, filling all the stairways and corridors with joyous noise. Then the great entrance door swung open, and a little cluster of golden pages entered bearing scented torches that flooded the room with yellow light. These in turn were followed by a train of fair maidens in white robes, who scattered white roses on the floor and sang to the music of a band of lutanists, the epithalamium which Sir Guy of Hainault had composed in honor of the bride and bridegroom. And this was the song they sang:
"Lo, the lovely pair are wed, Making one Gallantry and goodlihead, Moon and Sun: Now we bring the bride to bed, Wedding done; Flesh to flesh divinely led, Bone to bone. From the pillows where her head Lay alone Weary solitude has fled, Wisely flown. She must share her wine and bread, Share her throne, With the lover, dear and dread, All her own, Till the one for other dead Maketh moan. All is sung and all is said: Loose her zone!"
As the last words of the song, the last notes of the music, sobbed away into silence, the singing maidens made a lane from the door like two lines of tall white lilies, and through the doorway adown the lane came Duke Baldwin in his bravery holding the Duchess Esclaramonde by the hand, while beneath the heavy tramp of the knight and the light tread of the lady the crushed white petals of the scattered roses suspired a haunting perfume sickly sweet. Even to the familiar cynical eyes of her women, Esclaramonde at that moment showed radiantly fair. Flattery had fanned her cheeks to their loveliest color; triumph had lighted her eyes with their brightest fire; passion mantled her body with its atmosphere of flame.
In an instant Rainouart followed, escorted by Count Ernault, and it seemed to the keen eyes of the dainty waiting-women that his bearing showed less mazed than of late, and that his look was keener than it had seemed since his misadventure in the wood. "Marriage will make a new man of our moon-calf," Yelette whispered into the ears of Aveline, with a sauciness that was partly resentful, for she remembered with a sting how, in spite of her allegiance to her mistress, she had wasted her witcheries on his indifference on the morrow of their arrival at his father's court. "We may have our turn yet," Aveline answered, mockingly, for she, too, was one of the tempters who had failed to tempt, in which particular the two girls from Thebes wore the same kind of shoes that were worn by every delectable dame of Duke Baldwin's court. Then "Hush," cried Hildeletha, as through the doorway thronged those who interested the damsels more than their predecessors.
These were the knights of the court and the knightly visitors--Sir Guy of Hainault, Sir Jaufre de Brabant, Sir Raymond of Provence, Sir Ambrose of Blois, and the rest of Duke Baldwin's chivalry; Andronicus Palæologus, Prince Demetrius of Epirus, and the other noble visitors, squiring and gallanting smiling women. After these came the leaders of the Catalan Grand Company, with Fernand Ximenes at their head, gravely insolent to the ladies they attended, watching the vivid scene with impassive faces, indifferent to the merrymaking of the man who owed them their pay, but not indifferent, with the keen eye of your practised bandit, to the delightful possibilities from the bandit's point of view, if only Athens were to sack. And so the great room filled with light and color and laughter, and through all and over all, immeshing all in slender threads of melody, ran the tender wailing of the lutes.
Duke Baldwin bowed the Duchess of Thebes to the high seat on the dais, and paid her some compliments at once florid and full blooded, which must have embarrassed a maiden, and at which the duchess, with no little difficulty recalling far earlier memories, affected embarrassment. Then the lord of Athens, suggesting that the young couple had liefer be left alone, reminded the assembly of brilliant men and beautiful women that supper was still towards, and so with many smiles and salutations and good wishes the bright company faded in music from the room. A glance and a gesture from Esclaramonde sent Amicia and Hildeletha, Yelette and Aveline, tripping at their heels, and so the bride and groom were left alone together, face to face in the place that swooned with the scent of trampled roses.
The man and woman stood opposite to each other for a while in silence, Esclaramonde thinking inscrutable thoughts, Rainouart gazing at her like a man who wakes from sleep-walking and wonders why he has come to such a spot and how. Esclaramonde was habited in a robe of many reds, subtly blended, for she wished through the richness of these shifting tints to recall some royal rose imperial in its wealth of crimson petals, yet still a tender pink at the core. Indeed, Rainouart thought of a rose as he looked at her: his thoughts had been all of roses since he saw her so clad at the ducal banquet, and because of the rose his heart was full of care and travail. While his senses spurred him to woo such voluptuous beauty, enigmatical memories cried out to him strange forest cries; it was as if soft voices were calling at his ears, asking, "Is this the rose of the guarded garden, is this the noble rose of the world?" But her witchery was potent over his wits; his spirit seemed tugged this way and that inexplicably; he was bewildered; he would and he would not. At last he found voice under the spell of those lamping eyes that lured his pulses, and he stretched out his hands to the wonderful woman.
"To my arms, fair wife!" he cried, and though his voice sounded unreal in his ears, as if it were an echo of speech whispered to him by other lips, it rang real enough in the ears of Esclaramonde, and almost she regretted for the space of half a second that she could not answer promptly to the call. But swiftly she thought of the golden apple, swiftly she remembered that her lord would be no less loving when the night was a little older, and his senses had rekindled from unremembered sleep. She lifted her hand for a moment as if to stay his vehement advance; then she moved to the table, where a golden beaker stood circled with golden goblets, and she saw that the beaker was brimmed with wine. Dexterously and unseen of Rainouart she drew from her girdle a tiny golden phial, jerked the contents into one of the goblets and slipped the phial out of sight. Then she poured two full cups of wine, and held out the treasonable cup in her white hand to her lover.
"Pledge our health and happiness," she said, and her voice and eyes commanded, though voice and eyes seemed only to entreat.
As a shaft of sunlight suddenly pierces a mist, so suddenly did Rainouart's promise to the Prince of Eleusis drive its dart through the dark web of desire that enveloped his mind. Through all the wedding ceremony, through all the later festival, overcrowed by the magic of Esclaramonde, he had forgotten that pledge to the knight who had conquered him. Now it lived again with the duchess's proffer and beat furiously at his heart. He took the cup from his bride's hands and looked eagerly into her eyes, luminous and cryptic as the eyes of a sphinx.
"To your health, Fidelity," he murmured, half in idolatry, half in irony, as he lifted the cup to his lips.