the prophecies of the king proved the power of their pinions before fourteen suns had passed over the black wild's heart. richard of lauretia had plotted to starve fulviac into giving him battle, or into a retreat from the forest upon gilderoy. the royal prognostications were pitiless and unflinching as candescent steel. it was no mere battle-ground that he sought, but rather an amphitheatre where he might martyr the rebel host like a mob of revolted slaves.
whatever tidings may have muttered on the breeze, riders came in hotly to the royal pavilion towards the noon of the fourteenth day. there was soon much stir on the hills hard by geraint. knights and nobles thronged the royal tent, captains clanged shoulders, gallopers rode south and west with fiery despatches to morolt and sir simon of imbrecour. battle breathed in the wind. before night came, the king's pavilion had vanished from the hills; his columns were winding round the northern hem of the forest, to strike the road that ran from geraint to gilderoy.
the royal scouts and rangers had not played their master false. a river of steel was curling through the black depths of the wild, threading the valleys towards the east. the king's scouts had caught the glimmer of armour sifting through the trees. they had slunk about the rebel host for days while they lay camped in their thousands about the cliff. colgran and his small company had passed through unheeded, but they were up like hawks when the whole host moved.
that midnight fulviac's columns rolled from the outstanding thickets of the wild, and held in serried masses for the road to gilderoy. the king's procrastination had launched them on this last desperate venture. they would have starved in the forest as fulviac had foreseen; their hopes lay in reaching gilderoy, which was well victualled, throwing themselves therein, making what terms they could, or die fighting behind its walls. thus under cover of night they slipped from the forest, trusting to leave the king's men guarding an empty lair.
the brisk forethought of richard of lauretia had out-gamed the rebels, however, in the hazardous moves of war. they were answering to his opening like wild duck paddling towards a decoy. ten miles west of gilderoy there stretched a valley, walled southwards by tall heights, banded through the centre by the river tamar. at its eastern extremity a line of hills rolled down to touch the river. the road from geraint ran through the valley, hugging the southern bank of the river after crossing it westwards by a fortified bridge. fulviac and his host would follow that road, marching betwixt the river and the hills. it was in this valley that richard of lauretia had conceived the hurtling climax of the war.
forewarned in season, sir simon of imbrecour and his bristling squadrons were riding through the night on gilderoy, shaping a crescent course towards the east. morolt and the giants of the north were striding in his track, skirting the southern spires of the forest, to press level with the rebel march, screened by the hills. the king and his lauretians came down from geraint. they were to seize the bridge across the tamar, pour over, and close the rebels on the rear.
it was near dawn when fulviac's columns struck the highroad from geraint, and entered the valley where the tamar shimmered towards gilderoy. mist covered the world, shot through with the gold threads of the dawn. the river gleamed and murmured fitfully in the meadows; the southern heights glittered in the growing day; the purple slopes of the black wild had melted dimly into the west.
the mist stood dense in the flats where the geraint road bridged the river. the northern slopes seemed steeped in vapoury desolation, the road winding into a waste of green. fulviac and his men marched on, chuckling as they thought of the royal troops watching the empty alleys of the forest. fulviac took no care to secure the bridge across the tamar. with the line of hills before them breasted, they would see the spires of gilderoy, glittering athwart the dawn.
the columns were well in the lap of the valley before two light horsemen came galloping in from the far van, calling on fulviac, who rode under the red banner, that the road to gilderoy had been seized. fulviac and sforza rode forward with a squadron of horse to reconnoitre. as they advanced at a canter, the mists cleared from the skirts of the encircling hills. far to the east, on the green slopes that rolled towards the tamar, they saw the sun smite upon a thousand points of steel. pennons danced in the shimmering atmosphere, shields flickered, armour shone. a torrent of gems seemed poured from the dawn's lap upon the emerald bosoms of the hills. they were the glittering horsemen of sir simon of imbrecour, who had ridden out of the night and seized on the road to gilderoy.
fulviac halted his company, and standing in the stirrups, scanned the hillside under his hand. he frowned, thrust forth his chin, turned on sforza who rode at his side.
"trapped," he said with a twist of the lip; "dick of the iron hand has fooled us. 'twas done cunningly, though it brings us to a parlous passage. they hold the road."
the gonfaloniere tugged at his ragged beard, and looked white under the arch of his open salade.
"better advance on them," he said; "i would give good gold to be safe in the streets of gilderoy."
fulviac sneered, and shook his head.
"there are ten thousand spears on yonder slopes, the lustiest blood in the land. count their banners and their pennons, the stuff tells an honest tale. pah, they would drive our rapscallions into the river. send back and bid our banners halt."
they wheeled and cantered towards the long black columns plodding through the meadows. far to the west over the green plain they saw spears flash against the sun, a glimmering tide spreading from the river. the lauretians had crossed the bridge and were hurrying on the rebels' heels. fulviac's trumpets sounded the halt. he thundered his orders to his captains, bade them mass their men in the meadows, and hedge their pikes for the crash of battle.
a shout reached him from his squadrons of horse who had marched on the southern wing. they were pointing to the heights with sword and spear. fulviac reined round, rode forward to some rising ground, and looked southwards under his hand. the heights bounding the valley shone with steel. a myriad glistening stars shimmered under the sun. morolt's northerners had shown their shields; the hills bristled with their bills and spears.
fulviac shrugged his shoulders, lowered his beaver, and rode back towards his men. he saw yeoland the saint's red banner waving above the dusky squares. he remembered the girl's pale face and the hands that had toyed with the gilded silks in the dark chamber upon the cliff. though the sun shone and the earth glistened, he knew in his heart that he should see that face no more.
richard of lauretia had forged his crescent of steel. south, east, and west the royal trumpets sounded; northwards ran the tamar, closing the meadows. fulviac and his men were trapped in the green valley. a golden girdle of chivalry hemmed the mob in the lap of the emerald meadows. all about them blazed the panoply of war.
fulviac, pessimist that he was, took to his heart that hour the lofty tranquillity of a scandinavian hero. his courage was of that stout, sea-buffeting fibre that stiffened its beams against the tide of defeat. he set forth his shield, tossed up his sword, rode through the ranks with the spirit of a roland. life leapt the stronger in him at the challenge of the black raven of death. his captains could have sworn that he looked for victory in the moil, so bluff and strenuous was his mood that day.
sforza came cringing to him, glib-lipped and haggard, to speak of a parley. fulviac shook his shield in the man's white face, set his ruffians to dig trenches in the meadows, and to range the waggons as a barricade.
"parley, forsooth," quoth he; "talk no more to me of parleys when i have twoscore thousand smiters at my back. let dick of the iron hand come down to us with the sword. ha, sirs, are we stuffed with hay! we will rattle the royal bones and make them dance a fandango to the devil."
his spirit diffused itself through the ranks of the rough soldiery. they cheered wheresoever he went, kindling their courage like a torch, and tossed their pikes to him with strenuous insolence.
"my children," he would roar to them as he passed, "the day has come, we have drawn these skulkers to a tussle. see to it, sirs, let us maul these velvet gentlemen, these squires of the cushion. by the lord, we will feast anon in gilderoy, and rifle the king's baggage."
as for richard of the iron hand, he was content to claim the arduous blessings of the day. he held his men in leash upon the hills, resting them and their horses after the marchings of the night. wine was served out; clarions and sackbuts sounded through the ranks; the king made his nobles a rich feast in his pavilion pitched by sir morolt's banner. as the day drew on, he thrust strong outposts towards the meadows, ordered his troops to sleep through the long night under arms. their watch-fires gemmed a lurid bow under the sky, with tamar stringing it, a chord of silver. in the meadows the rebel masses lay a black pool of gloom under the stars.
fulviac sat alone in his tent at midnight, his drawn sword across his knees. his captains had left him, some to watch, others to sleep on the grass in their armour, sforza the gonfaloniere to sneak in the dark to the king's lines. silence covered the valley, save for the voices of the sentinels and the sound of the royal trumpets blowing the changes on the hills. their watch-fires hung athwart the sky like a chain of flashing rubies.
fulviac sat motionless as a statue, staring out into the night. death, like a grey wraith, stood beside his chair; the unknown, a black and unsailed sea, stretched calm and imageless beneath his feet. life and the ambition thereof tottered and crumbled like a quaking ruin. love quenched her torch of gold. the man saw the stars above him, heard in the silence of thought a thousand worlds surging through the infinitudes of the heavens. what then was this mortal pillar of clay, that it should grudge its dust to the womb of the world?
and ambition? he thought of yeoland and her wounded heart; of gambrevault and avalon; of la belle forêt smoking amid its ruins. he had torched fame through the land, and painted his prowess in symbols of fire. now that death challenged him on the strand of the unknown, should he, fulviac, fear the unsailed sea!
his heart glowed in him with a transcendent insolence. lifting his sword, he pressed the cold steel to his lips, brandished it in the faces of the stars. then, with a laugh, he lay down upon a pile of straw and slept.
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《the red saint》
