dawn rolled out of the east, red and riotous, its crimson spears streaming towards the zenith. over the far towers of gilderoy swept a roseate and golden mist, over the pine-strewn heights, over tamar silvering the valley. a wind piped hoarsely through the thickets, like a shrill prelude to the organ-throated roar of war.
the landscape shimmered in the broadening light, green tapestries arabesqued with gold. to the east, sir simon's multitudinous squadrons ran like rare terraces of flowers, dusted with the scintillant dew of steel. westwards dwindled the long ranks of the lauretians. on the heights, morolt's shields flickered in the sun. about a hillock in the valley, the rebel host stood massed in a great circle, a whorl of helmets, bills, and pikes; fulviac's red pavilion starred the centre like the red roof of a church rising above a town.
on the southern heights, richard of lauretia had watched the dawn rise behind the towers of gilderoy. he was on horseback, in full panoply of war, his gorgeous harness and trappings dazzling the sun. knights, nobles, trumpeters were round him, a splendid pool of chivalry, while east and west stretched the ranks of the grim and gigantic soldiery of the north.
hard by the royal standard with its sun of gold, a corpse dangled from the branch of a great fir. it swayed slightly in the wind, black and sinister against the gilded curtain of the dawn. it was the body of sforza the adventurer from the south, gonfaloniere of gilderoy, whom the king had hanged to grace his double treachery.
as the light increased, sweeping along the glittering frieze of war, morolt of gorm and regis stood forward before the king. he was a lean man, tall and vigorous as a bow of steel, his black eyes darting fire under his thatch of close-cropped hair. the nobles had put him forward that morning as a man born to claim a boon upon the brink of battle. fierce and virile, he bared his sword to the sun, and pointed with mailed hand to the rebel host in the valley.
"sire, a boon for your loyal servants."
the king's face was as a mask of steel heated to white heat, ardent and pitiless. he had the spoilers of his kingdom under his heel, and was not the man to flinch at vengeance.
"say on, morolt, what would ye?"
"we are men, sire, and these wolves have slaughtered our kinsfolk."
"am i held to be a lamb, sirs!"
a rough laugh eddied up. morolt shook his sword.
"give them into our hand, sire," he said; "there shall be no need of ropes and dungeons."
the iron men cheered him. richard the king lifted up his baton; his strong voice swept far in the hush of the dawn.
"sirs," he said to them, "take the black leopard of imbrecour for your pattern, rend and slay, let none escape you. every man of my host wears a white cross on his sword arm. let that badge only stay your vengeance. as for these whelps of treason, they have butchered our children, shamed our women, clawed and torn at their king's throne. to-day who thinks of mercy! go down, sirs, to the slaughter."
a roar of joy rose from those rough warriors; they tossed their swords, gripped hands and embraced, called on the saints to serve them. strong passions were loose, steaming like the incense of sacked cities into heaven. there was much to avenge, much to expurgate. that day their swords were to drink blood; that day they were to crush and kill.
in the valley, fulviac's huge coil of humanity lay sullen and silent, watching the spears upon the hills. their russets and sables contrasted with the gorgeous colouring of the feudalists. the one shone like a garden; the other resembled a field lying fallow. the romance and pomp of war gathered to pour down upon the squalid realism of mob tyranny. beauty and the beast, knight and scullion faced each other on the stage that morning.
gallopers were riding east and west bearing the king's commands to sire julian, duke of layonne, who headed the lauretians, and to simon of imbrecour upon the hills. the king would not tempt the moil that day, but left the sweat and thunder of it to his captains, content to play the cæsar on the southern heights. his commands had gone forth to the host. the first assault was to be made by twenty thousand northmen under morolt, and a like force under julian of layonne. the whole crescent of steel was to contract upon the meadows, and consolidate its iron wall about fulviac and his rebels. simon of imbrecour was to leash his chivalry from the first rush of the fight. his knights should ride in when the rebel ranks were broken.
an hour before noon, the royal trumpets blew the advance, and a great shout surged through the shimmering ranks.
"advance, black leopard of imbrecour."
"advance, golden sun of lauretia."
"advance, grey wolf of the north."
with clarions and fifes playing, drums beating, banners blowing, the whole host closed its semilune of steel upon the dusky mass in the meadows. the northerners were chanting an old norse ballad, a grim, ice-bound song of the sea and the shriek of the sword. sir simon's spears were rolling over the green slopes, their trumpets and bugles blowing merrily. from the west, the lauretians were coming up with their pikes dancing in the sun. the thunder of the advance seemed to shake the hills.
fulviac watched the feudalists from beneath his banner in the meadows. his captains were round him, grim men and silent, girding their spirits for the prick of battle.
"by st. peter," said the man under the red flag, "these fireflies come on passably. a fair host and a splendid. if their courage suits their panoply, we shall have hot work to-day."
"faith," quoth colgran, who had returned from gilderoy, "i would rather sweep a flower-garden than a muck-heap. we are good for twice their number, massed as we are like rocks upon a sea-shore."
"to your posts, sirs," were fulviac's last words to them; "whether we fall or conquer, what matters it if we die like men!"
billows of red, green, and blue, dusted with silver, morolt and his berserkers rolled to the charge. they had cast aside their pikes, and taken to shield and axe, such axes as had warred in the far past for the faith of odin. fulviac's rebels had massed their spears into a hedge of steel, and though morolt's men came down at a run, the spear points stemmed the onrush like a wall.
despite this avalanche of iron, the rebel ring stove off the tide of war. they were stout churls and hardy, these peasant plunderers; death admonished them; despair tightened their sinews and propped up their shields. the shimmering flood swirled on their spear points like tawny billows tossing round a rock. it lapped and eddied, rushed up in spray, seeking an inlet, yet finding none. the lauretian feudatories had swarmed to the charge. fulviac withstood them, and held their panoply at bay.
richard the king watched the battle from the southern heights. he saw morolt's men roll down, saw the fight seethe and glitter, swirl in a wild vortex round the rebel spears. the war wolves gathered, the tempest waxed, and still the black ring held. like steel upon a granite rock the onslaughts sparked on it, but clove no breach. under the late noon sun the valley reeked with dust and din. the royal host was as a dragon of gold, gnashing and writhing about an iron tower.
it was then that the king smote his thigh, plucked off his signet, sent it by bertrand his herald to sir simon and his knights.
"go down at the gallop," ran the royal bidding, "cleave me this rock, and splinter it to dust. spare neither man nor horse. cleave in or perish."
the black banner of imbrecour flapped forth; the trumpets clamoured. sir simon's knights might well have graced boiardo's page, and girded albracca with their stalwart spears. they tightened girths, set shields for the charge, and rode down nobly to avenge or fall.
as a great ship sails to break a harbour boom, so did the squadrons of the king crash down with fewtred spears on fulviac's host. they rode with the wind, leaping and thundering like an iron flood. no slackening was there, no wavering of this ponderous bolt. it rushed like a huge rock down a mountain's flank, smoking and hurtling on the wall of spears.
the corn was scythed and trodden under foot. ranks rocked and broke like earth before a storm-scourged sea. the spears of imbrecour flashed on, smote and sucked vengeance, cleaving a breach into the core of war. the knights slew, took scarlet for their colour, and made the moment murderous with steel. into the breach the king's wolves followed them; morolt's grim axemen stumbled in, rending and hurling the black mass to shreds. battle became butchery. the day was won.
what boots it to chronicle the scene that travelled as a forest fire in the track of sir simon's chivalry? the iron hand of the king closed upon the wrecked victims in the valley. knight and noble trampled the peasantry; rapine and lust were put to the sword. the blatant beast was slain by the spear of romance. the boor and the demagogue were trodden as straw before the threshing-floor of vengeance. the fields were a shroud of scarlet; tamar ran like wine; thorn and bramble were fruited red with blood. on the heights the tall pines waved over the splendid masque of death.
it was late in the day when morolt and his hillsmen, with certain of sir simon's knights, forced their way through the wreckage of the fight, to the hillock where stood the banner of the saint. south, east, and west the rout bubbled into the twilight, a riot of slaughter seething to the distant woods. about yeoland's banner had gathered the last of the forest brotherhood, grey wolves red to the throat with battle. sullen and indomitable, they had gathered in a dusky knot of steel as the day sped into the kindling west. even morolt's fierce followers stood still, like hounds that had brought the boar to bay. simon of imbrecour spurred out before the spears, lifted a shattered sword, and called on fulviac by name.
"traitor, we challenge ye."
a burly figure in harness of a reddish hue towered up beneath the fringe of the banner of the saint. he carried an axe slanted over his shoulder, as he stood half a head above the tallest of his men. as sir simon challenged him, he lifted his salade, and bared his face to the war dogs who hemmed him in.
"black leopard of the west, we meet again."
the lord of imbrecour peered at him keenly from under his vizor.
"come, sirs, and end it," quoth the man in red, "buffet for buffet, and sword to sword. i fling ye a gauge to death and the devil. come, sirs, let us end it; i bide my time."
morolt sprang forward with sword aloft.
"traitor and rebel, i have seen your face before."
fulviac laughed, a brave burst of scorn. he tossed his axe to them, and spread his arms.
"ha, morolt, i have foined with ye of old. saints and martyrs, have i avenged myself upon the lap-dogs of the court! here will we fight our last battle. bury me, sirs, as fulk of argentin, the king's brother, whom men thought dead these seven years."
a sudden silence hovered above that remnant of a beaten host. the red banner drooped, hung down about its staff. morolt, uttering a strange cry, smote his bosom with his iron hand. old simon crossed himself, turned back and rode thence slowly from the field.
morolt's voice, gruff and husky, sounded the charge. when he and his war dogs had made an end, they took fulviac's head and bore it wrapped in yeoland's banner to the king.
